Bats, and Other Creatures of the Night
by siriuswriter
Summary: BB Rosa Ducard is living a false life under a false name as a policewoman in gotham. just when she's ready to investigate herself straight into a nervous breakdown, a man breaks into her apartment... well, flies into it, actually. B/OC
1. prologue

When Rosalie Falcone was six years old, she learnt the difference between herself, and all of the other children in her class. She sensed somehow that it wasn't her, really, that was different. It was more of an odd awareness that she wasn't called on as much to answer a question, yet she still received excellent grades. More of a knowing that she wouldn't be rapped on the palm with a ruler if she took more than her share at snack time. There was one other student in Rosalie's first grade class that was bright enough to recognize this difference : Rachel Dawes, a perky little child who was never afraid to express her opinions, half-formed as they were at the age of six.

"I don't think it's fair," Rachel complained to their teacher. "She shouldn't be treated any different than the rest of us."

Rachel's proclamations never moved the elderly spinster that was in charge of the first grade, who knew that Rachel's parent had little influence in Gotham – the gardener for Wayne Manor. Everyone knew that Rachel only attended the private institution because she was friends with the only child of the house, and so treated her accordingly. The children took their cues from their teacher, and treated Rachel with a less-than-impressed demeanor. It was whispered that Mr. Dawes had been involved in distasteful activities, and that was what had led to his gory demise. What the death had involved was never mentioned, only that adjective – "gory." It made the first-grade teacher shiver with the delight of a scandal, and gave her further fuel to dislike the spawn of it.

Every child, except Rosalie Falcone. It was odd that the two children were drawn together, one favored above the others, and one looked down on. It was Rachel's influence on Rosalie that communicated to the child that she shouldn't take advantage of the unfair treatment, and Rosalie's influence on Rachel that made the girl realize that she shouldn't treat herself like the entire first grade did. It was an unspoken arrangement that Rosalie would speak up for Rachel, and vice versa.

The two girls switched play-dates with each other – Rosalie's turn was always some sort of outing, riding on the elevated train that ran through the city with Rosalie's mother, Mrs. Giulietta Falcone, who was very soft-spoken but extremely devoted to the pair. Picnics, trips to the zoo, sunny days by a public swimming pool – these things ran the play dates of Rosalie.

But Rachel had the better attraction, in Rosalie's mind. The grounds of Wayne Manor were a wonderland for the two young girls, who would flit about, pretending to be faeries among beautiful landscaping and colorful flowers, playing hopscotch with round, flat pebbles by one of the huge decorative fountains. When they were forced to go inside, they would walk together through the myriad halls of the Manor, playing damsels in distress in the darker hallways, and being queens in the sunnier ones. The novelty of a butler with an accent added greatly to their play, and Alfred never failed to say something that made the pair giggle in wonder at how another human being could speak so differently.

The first time Rosalie met Bruce Wayne, the two had been parading around draped in expensive fabrics, which had been pinned into elegant dresses by Mrs. Dawes. They were admiring the way the dresses trailed behind them as the walked down the hundred stairs to the main garden, stepping slowly and regally onto each shallow step. They made their way to a large weeping willow, were Alfred served them juice in the most beautiful and dainty tea set on a miniature table, his long, lean frame folded onto one of the miniature chairs.

"More tea for Milady Rose? A biscuit for Milady Rachel?" He said in his most proper voice.

"Yes, please, Alfred," Rachel deigned to answer as she grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the plate. She munched on a bite thoughtfully, then opened her mouth again. "Milady Rose?"

"Yes, Milady Rachel?" Rosalie answered.

"Rosie?" Rachel asked again, putting the remains of the cookie on her saucer.

"What, Rach?" Having dropped out of the fancy behavior, Rosalie set her teacup down and put her elbows up on the table.

"Why don't we ever go to your _house_ to play?"

Alfred couldn't help repressing a small noise at the question, and he pressed his lips together, gritting his teeth, then forced his face to relax before he turned to Rosalie to hear her answer.

"Uummm…" she began. "It's not as good as this." Rachel looked at her through hard eyes, and Rosalie knew she would have to come up with a better explanation. "No really. You wouldn't like it." Still searching for a good reason, Rosalie reached out for the truth. "My mama says that it's better if you don't come, I don't think she likes being home very much. Plus it's really small," Rosalie added as a last entreaty.

Neither of the girls saw Alfred's eyes soften as he watched the Falcone heir grasping for the right thing to say to her best friend.

"It can't be that bad, if you live there," Rachel began to reason.

"Well, I don't think it's so bad, I mean there's Angelo the cook and he's really funny, all the kitchen staff are really nice to me. But I think they sort of… have to be." Rosalie said this all very matter-of-factly, and looked down at her teacup. The observation came from the same sort of perception she had picked up at school, and she knew Rachel would understand that. "It's kinda weird sometimes."

Rachel sensed her friend wanting to leave this conversation topic alone, and so she nodded quickly before picking up her teacup and raising it to toast Rosalie.

"It's not weird here," she proclaimed, once again resuming the attitude of a snobby noble, "so that's okay. Right, Milady Falcone?"

Rosalie beamed. "Right, Milady Dawes." Before she could pick up her teacup and clink it with Rachel's, a strange voice spoke from above them.

"_Falcone_!" The trio looked up, and the first to speak was Alfred.

"Young Master Bruce! Get down from there, your arm's not yet healed!"

A cross look crossed the boy's face as Alfred stood up and retrieved him from one of the lower branches. Rosalie noticed that one of his arms was in a sling, and narrowed her eyes at the unwelcome intruder.

"Bruce! That's not very nice, to listen in like that!" Rachel stood up swiftly, and Rosalie thought she looked like a real queen as stood tall to rebuke the boy.

"If you knew who she was, Rachel, then you wouldn't care about it." Now on the ground, the boy stared stiffly back at Rachel.

"I do know who she is, dumbhead. She's Rosalie, she's my best friend." Rosalie felt a burst of warmth go through her at the statement.

"No she's not. Her parents are…"

"I don't care who her parents are! She's the only one who doesn't care about mine!!" Rachel was practically screaming now, and the boy backed up a few steps.

"You'd care if you knew who they were, Rachel. Her daddy's _Carmine Falcone_!" he shouted back triumphantly, and Alfred made the same unidentifiable noise before saying loudly, "Bruce. Wayne!"

Rosalie jolted at the name. She had not yet encountered a member of the family that lived in the beautiful house she loved to play in. And if they were all like this… she didn't care to meet another. She stood up, too, and walked dangerously close to Bruce.

"So what's wrong about that?" Rosalie asked in a voice of dead calm.

"He's only the biggest mob boss in Gotham," the older boy said sarcastically. "Or didn't you know that?"

Rosalie's eyes widened at this, and she began to tremble all over.

"That's not true! It's not true, you're lying, you're a mean, nasty liar and I'll never listen to anything you have to say again!" Rosalie rose her voice for the first time.

"It's not true?! You haven't even found that out yet? You _live_ with him!"

Rosalie kept saying, "Not true, not true, not true…" over and over again, and she turned to Alfred, who knew all, in a panic. "Alfred, that's not true, is it?"

The butler stared down at the nearly hysterical girl, willing himself to open his mouth and lie, to say, "No, it isn't true, I don't know where Bruce heard that," but he couldn't. So he shut his mouth again.

"… then it _is_?" Rosalie stared wildly around, her eyes searching for Rachel. She found her friend, sitting cross-legged on the ground. "Rachel… are you okay?"

Rachel lifted her head slowly, her eyes meeting Rosalie's. "Rosie… Carmine Falcone killed my daddy. I heard the Waynes talking about it with… with my mom!" Rachel burst out into tears, and Rosalie knelt beside her to comfort her. "Don't touch me!" Rachel shrieked, shuddering away. She got up from the ground clumsily, and ran toward Bruce, who sheltered her with his unhurt arm. He gave Rosalie a look of triumph over Rachel's shaking head.

"Alfred, the mean girl is going home now."

It was a long ride home for Rosalie. Her mother had been called, and she had arrived in some thirty minutes to see her daughter sitting on the front step of Wayne Manor, dressed in an odd creation of forest green, her head in her hands.

"What happened?" Giulietta Falcone asked as she seated herself beside the small crying child.

"I found out about Papa, so did they."

"Oh, _la mia princepessa_," Giulietta murmured as she brought her daughter into her arms and whispered her pet name into her ear – princess.

They sat together there as one form as Rosalie let herself be comforted by her mother. Neither of them heard the front door gently open.

"Mrs…. Falcone?" A deep, measured voice inquired.

Giulietta looked up suddenly to answer, and replied in just as calm of a tone, "Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

"Please, it's Thomas."

Giulietta nodded slowly, then replied with dignity, "Giulietta. Juliet is probably more easier for you." She wasn't as good with English as her daughter or husband, but her voice held sincerity.

"Juliet. I'm very sorry about this, somehow our Bruce got it into his head that he needed to tell Rachel…. I'm sure that the girl will be alright after a matter of time, it's the shock, you know."

"Yes, I know. Our family seems to have a… talent for to give it out."

A rather startled laugh came bubbling from Thomas Wayne's lips, and he continued on. "I would like to drive the two of you home."

"We will take the train, thank you but no."

"It isn't any trouble for me, really."

"Thank you, but we will take the train. We will still have the blessing of your charity, if we take the train." Giulietta stood up with immense dignity, holding her heavy six year old on her hip as if she weighed nothing.

"It's not charity, ma'am."

Mrs. Falcone looked into Mr. Wayne's face, and her eyes softened a bit. "You may drive us to the station, if you would like it."

"Thank you. I'll be right around with the car."

The drive was quiet except for the sound of Giulietta making small comforting sounds to her daughter, who had ceased crying but was still clinging on to her mother. Rosalie had begun to fall asleep within the safe grasp when the car stopped at the nearest station some fifteen minutes away.

Giulietta politely gave her thanks for the ride, and prepared to climb the stairs to reach the platform.

"Juliet, if I may?" Thomas Wayne had quickly opened his car door and was now standing beside the woman with her precious burden, who stopped and turned at the words.

Thomas Wayne leant down, in order to look into Rosalie's face. "Rosalie?" he said quietly.

It was enough to wake Rosalie from her restless sleep.

"Rosalie, you can't help where you're born, but you can help where your path takes you from there."

Rosalie stared at the tall man for a few seconds, then turned her head into her mother's shoulder.

"Thank you, Thomas," Giulietta murmured. "Now, we need to be getting back." She stuck out a free hand for Mr. Wayne to shake, and he did so, then watched the two make their way up.

It was a month later when the news came quickly, after it happened. Thomas Wayne and his wife had been murdered in The Narrows, coming out of the stage door of an opera house.

Only their son, Bruce Wayne, had survived.


	2. il mio percorso

The death of the senior Waynes has spurred the wealthy and powerful of Gotham to more philanthropic pursuits, and it was felt in no place more than in The Narrows. Laws which affected positive social change were fast tracked through the legal system, and the throngs of people living on the streets diminished as large and relatively well built condominiums rose like sunflowers, their faces determinedly facing toward the sun of a brighter day.

While most of the parts of The Narrows were benefited by the surge of goodwill, the restaurant "Carmine's" had suffered a famine of customers, and Giulietta Falcone had started to take in the laundry of her neighbors in order to keep her fast-growing daughter in her required uniform for school. Giulietta soon learned what it was to take charity, as the housewives surrounding the small restaurant and overhead home sent over dresses to be cleaned and recleaned, shirts with stains that couldn't possibly have been put there by accident, and undergarments that, at the customers' insistence, could still be saved from becoming rags. Giulietta had the magic touch with clothes, the women proclaimed, and they went only to her in a show of quiet gratitude and sympathy in her unfortunate choice of husband.

Things were different everywhere for Rosalie, it seemed. The practice that she had had when she was very young of spurning the favoritism of her teachers was now useful, as no instructor at her private school continued to show it. It seemed as if she and Rachel had changed places – now, Rachel was the only connection to the heir to the entire Wayne fortune; now, Rosalie was the daughter of a man who had for years committed heinous crimes. It was difficult for both of them to no longer have the support that a friend could provide.

It was Rachel who extended the olive branch in the summer before their fifth grade year. Rosalie was a tall and gawky twelve, tripping over shoes that were bought for practicality, not comfort. She had been sitting on a swing, twirling and untwirling in the seat, when she felt a pair of small hands at her back.

"Rosie?" an equally small voice said from behind her.

It was just a quick look into each others' eyes, and the best friend collided together, throwing their arms around each other.

"I missed you so much!" Rachel said through a veil of tears.

"You had Bruce to play with though, didn't you?" Rosalie grimaced at the memory of the squat boy with the broken arm.

"Yeah but… he's a _boy_!" Rachel wrinkled her nose, and Rosalie nodded in understanding. Boys, they had recently come to realize, were the most incredibly stupid beings on the planet and should be avoided at all costs.

They both looked up then, to see a policeman walking past the iron gate that ran the perimeter of the playground.

"I don't see them very often anymore," Rosalie stated as he went out of sight. "I guess they don't like coming here."

In fact, the police force and other fair weather do-gooders had begun to disappear from The Narrows. Rosalie had made a game of counting them out of her bedroom window. At first, there had been more than she could keep track of, but as she eased into teenagerdom, Rosalie Falcone noticed that she could count the number of policemen protecting the area around Carmine's on one hand.

There was one man that was always there, though, even if he was the sole officer for a week running. He was a tall, lean man, with closely cropped hair and a small mustache sprouting from his upper lip. He wore square-rimmed glasses that he would often take off to polish on his dark blue policeman's shirt, and his mouth was always set in a grim line. It seemed to Rosalie that he knew that the time for goodness was coming to an end – he frequently came during the day, speaking politely to the families who lived around the restaurant Carmine's, even giving free safety inspection tours of any living space that he was asked to. He always pointed out a weak spot – a window that never quite shut here, a door with a jammed lock there. By the time she was thirteen, that officer was the only one still coming to The Narrows.

Rosalie couldn't have known it then, but he was preparing for the return of Carmine Falcone.

ooooo

Carmine Falcone, by anyone's standards, was a very evil man. There wasn't a commodity that he didn't deal in – drugs, alcohol, weapons, sex trafficking… the man knew every kind of shady business, and did them all with a ruthless precision that even his enemies had to admire. It was, after all, this same ruthlessness that caused him to become the most feared and notorious mob boss in the city of Gotham.

In jail for embezzlement, Carmine Falcone was put on parole after eight years, which was, in his opinion, much too long. The first thing he planned on doing after being set free from prison was to ensure that he never had to go back there. It would take some time to set things in Gotham back to the way they were before the Wayne murders, but Carmine Falcone was nothing if not patient.

He arrived back at the restaurant he had founded for making business deals late in the afternoon. Rosalie was home from school, and was in the living room doing her homework. Giulietta was also there, her huge ironing board out and the iron steaming, folding clothes carefully on the creases. Occasionally, she would help Rosalie with an especially hard arithmetic problem, but she suddenly stopped in the middle of an answer, hearing something Rosalie did not.

"_Dio mio_!" Giulietta whispered harshly. "Rosalie, take the clothes. He cannot see me working!"

Rosalie grabbed the clothes from a nearby chair and ran into her room, stashing them under the bed. Only then did she hear what she knew her mother had – the tapping of well-made shoes on a wooden floor. The wooden floor of the restaurant downstairs.

Carmine walked in the front door like he had never been gone, his beady eyes looking out of his face, red from exertion, as he surveyed the almost-empty restaurant. One waiter was bending down to give an order to a customer, and another was pushing past the swinging doors into the kitchen, his order pad secure in his belt. A bus boy walked straight past Carmine, carrying a tray piled high with dirty dishes.

Suddenly, Carmine stuck out his foot, and the busboy fell to the ground, the dishes skittering over the floor, broken glass shattering everywhere. Horrified, the teenaged busboy looked up at Carmine, who glanced down, and then smiled widely.

"I'm back," he shouted, his deep voice rumbling over the sounds of clinking cutlery and jostled ice. Carmine spread his arms out as if to embrace the entire restaurant, and from the few people sitting down, a cheer rose.

"Now, where is my family? Where is my beautiful wife and my little princess?"

Through the floorboards, Rosalie heard her father shouting and glanced over at her mother. She hardly looked up to the task of being a "beautiful wife," and was her father really expecting her to look and act like a "little princess" when she hadn't seen him since she was five years old? She'd known _Bruce Wayne_ longer!

Her mouth set in a rebellious line, Rosalie stamped down the stairs before Giulietta could stop her.

"I'm hardly a little princess anymore," she said with acid in her voice, staring up at the man who wasn't much taller than her, placing her hands firmly on her hips. "And I don't think…"

Carmine cut her off with a gust of laughter. "Turned into a little spitfire, haven't you? You're going to grow up to look just like your mother, you are. Thank the Lord," he added, "'cause God knows my looks wouldn't suit a girl any!"

There was more uproarious laughter from the patrons in the restaurant, but Rosalie stared at her father, her mouth in a hard line.

"Aw, come on now, where's a smile for your daddy?" Carmine teased, and leant down to pinch his daughter's cheek.

"It's probably gone the same way as the broken dishes," Rosalie snapped, looking over her father's shoulder to the busboy who was still on the ground, starting to try and clean up some of the mess of the smashed utensils.

Carmine's smile suddenly flattened, and his face went from jolly to menacing. "Look here, kid. There's a fine line between spitfire and disrespect, and you're walking it."

Rosalie wasn't sure where she got the courage to speak to her father like this – she had always been deathly afraid of him when hearing stories about him. Perhaps it was seeing her mother change from a confident woman to a huddled mess when she heard his voice, or maybe it was how he so carelessly made the busboy crash to the floor. Whatever the trigger was, though, thirteen-year-old Rosalie Falcone made a choice standing there in front of that man that she was never going to be scared of him again.

"I'd say I've gone straight to disrespect, actually," she hissed.

Silence coated the restaurant like a thick marinara, and Carmine Falcone stared down at the gawky girl standing not two feet away from him.

"I'd say," he said softly, "that you'd better get out of my sight before I do something I regret, _Rosalie_."

She would have stood there forever if it had not been for the faint tug at her school uniform's sleeve. Turning around sharply, Rosalie met the face of Angelo the cook, and before she could respond he took her by the arms and half walked, half dragged her to the kitchen.

Before the kitchen door swung shut, Rosalie looked back at her father straight in the eyes. And she knew that Thomas Wayne, wherever he was, would have been proud of her.

ooooo

"C'mon kiddo, let's get you something to eat," Angelo bustled around the kitchen, lifting pasta out of boiling pans of water and setting fresh batches in. With one hand he stirred some alfredo sauce, and with another, began sorting some risotto out for lasagna.

"You've got some mouth on you, kid," he said as he finally stopped moving around to sit down across the table from Rosalie. "But I think you'd better watch out how you use it around your father."

"I'm not afraid of him," Rosalie said vehemently.

"That's the point," Angelo sighed. "You're not afraid. But he can make you afraid, little Rosie, there are so many ways he can make you afraid." Angelo took off his white chef's hat and ran his fingers through his blond hair. "So let's not just make him do that, okay kiddo?"

Rosalie opened her mouth, then nodded sullenly.

"Great," Angelo sprang up again, grabbing a plate and spreading some marinara over its contents. "Here, your favorite," he said, placing it on the table in front of Rosalie. "Ooh, wait honey, don't put your plate on the table like that, here, use a placemat," Angelo added, lifting the plate up again and placing a newspaper under it. "Go on, dig in."

Rosalie looked down to take a forkful of food, then gasped as she saw the picture above the fold.

A sullen Bruce Wayne looked up at me, his arms crossed, his mouth pressed grimly shut. Alfred stood beside him, an arm on Bruce's shoulder. The caption under the picture read : "Fourteen-year-old Bruce Wayne, heir to the Wayne company and fortune, pictured here with servant at his parent's grave. Yesterday was the seventh anniversary of his parents' deaths."

Rosalie looked at the picture again. Bruce had grown from the small, squat boy he had been at seven, stretching out till he met Alfred's elbow. His chubby face was lengthened, his dark hair was shaggy. He was wearing a black suit with a tie that seemed overlong for him, and with a shock of recognition, she placed it as Thomas Wayne's tie, the tie he had been wearing when he drove Giulietta and Roaslie to the train station seven years ago. Rosalie let her fingers stray over the tie, remembering the man…

_You can't help where you're born, but you can help where your path takes you from there._

Thinking of Thomas Wayne, Rosalie knew then hearing the sound of her father's harsh laughter from the dining room, and knowing her mother was upstairs, huddled in a chair, that she had no intention of following her father's path in life.

"_Il mio percorso_," Rosalie whispered out loud. My own path.

"What was that, Rosie?" Angelo's booming voice came from over the stove.

"Nothing – nothing at all," Rosalie responded as she curled her fist over the picture of the grieving Bruce Wayne.


	3. the deal

A fist slammed the table so hard that the dishes on it rattled.

From the kitchen a twenty-year-old Rosalie cringed, almost dropping the crystal glass that she was drying.

Seven years of living under that fist hadn't been beneficial to Rosalie's resolution to never fear the man she called father. In fact, there had been some days when she had been positively terrified of him, and of the things he was capable of. She had been eighteen the first time she had seen someone killed; shot in cold blood outside of the restaurant in a side alley. It was a member from a rival Family – the Salvatore's. Sebastian Salvatore, more than slightly intoxicated, had wandered out of his family's territory and into the Falcone's.

Rosalie tried not to think of that day – knowing that the young man's death had been, in essence, her fault. Yes, her mother had told her that with the rivaling Families, only the smallest provocation led to all-out war, but young Sebastian Salvatore had, in his drunken state of mind, decided to make Rosalie herself that provocation.

Rosalie was a hostess at Carmine's in her spare time, at her father's insistence. "To keep things in the family," he would say each time he saw Rosalie putting her hair up into a bun while wearing a demure black dress. It wasn't the most appealing job in the world, but Rosalie reminded herself that she was much better off than some of her father's other employees – women often seen hanging off the burly arms of her father's… "associates."

It was all so cliché, Rosalie remembered thinking that night, watching Carmine speak with a large man with red-blond hair, both dressed in expensive suits. She had seated the man, who had given his name as Anthony Faden. Rosalie had to suppress the urge to draw in a sharp breath at the name – she recognized it from the legal pages of the newspaper; the man was a judge. Although, Rosalie thought as he sat across from her father and smiled genially, probably not a fair judge anymore.

She had sighed then, and walked back to the front of Carmine's to greet new customers. Two men dressed in black stood behind her, their hands locked in front of them – a silent but ever-present reminder that anyone who entered the restaurant was immediately under supervision, and subject to a search at anytime.

It was then that Sebastian Salvatore had made his entrance, soaking wet with rain and wobbling from side to side, smelling sharply of alcohol and vomit.

Rosalie had tried not to gag while approaching him. "Sir, do you have a reservation?" The polite question was a code – the answer was supposed to be the name of a connection, or the purpose of that party's visit to Carmine's. Instead, the young Salvatore had slurred, "I just want shomething to drink, ish that alright? Are you the sherver?"

Apparently, this had been too much effort for Sebastian, as he had fallen forward on to Rosalie, his hands pulling at the dress on her shoulders and disarranging it somewhat. He crashed to the floor, striping the black dress with muddy handprints as he went.

One of the men accustomed to standing behind Rosalie approached, and lifted the now-unconscious boy by gripping him roughly under the armpits. Peering into the drunk's face, the man said something low and urgent to his companion, who walked swiftly back to Carmine Falcone's table, then leant down and whispered something in his ear.

Carmine slammed his fist down on the table, and the restaurant fell silent. Then, placing his cloth napkin in a crumple on the table, Carmine Falcone stood up and made his way to the front of the restaurant.

"He do this to you?" Carmine said, gesturing at Rosalie's ruined dress. Without waiting for an answer, he put an arm around Rosalie's shoulders and led her to the door, the two men with the unconscious intruder hanging between them following.

Rosalie had felt a strong sense of foreboding as her father took her out to the alleyway. The men dumped Salvatore on the ground, and one of them tossed some water onto his face. Sleepily, Sebastian opened his eyes and was about to make a rude gesture when Carmine spoke.

"You touched my daughter?" He said, his voice rising.

Sebastian's eyes widened slightly as the tone in Carmine's voice sobered him somewhat. "The sherver?"

"You touched my daughter," It was no longer a question, and Carmine flicked his finger at one of the men, then held Rosalie so she was facing Sebastian. In a flash of understanding, Rosalie understood what was going to happen, and shut her eyes tightly, but nothing could stop her from hearing the report of the gun that echoed through the alleyway.

It seemed to Rosalie that there was an infinite silence after the shot rang out, but the sense was broken by one of the men saying, "You want I should dump the body, Mr. Falcone?"

"No," she heard her father saying. "Leave him here. I want the Salvatores to know one of their kids crossed the line. Maybe they'll be more careful about it in the future."

Rosalie finally opened her eyes, and her gaze went straight to the young man lying on the ground. Blood was seeping from his head, mixing into the puddles surrounding him and turning it a rust color. She kept her stare on the reddening water as the man who shot Sebastian Salvatore took the red rose from his buttonhole, and dropped it onto young man's muddy suit. Her mouth gaping open, Rosalie looked up at this gesture, and the man explained. "So the Salvatores should know that this is our job," he said succinctly, and then followed his companion and Carmine Falcone back into the restaurant.

Rosalie sank to her knees in the mud, finally letting out the wail she wouldn't allow herself to utter in her father's presence.

ooooo

Two years later, after graduating from the Gotham City Private School, Rosalie now heard that smash of fist on wood that never meant anything good.

"That son of a bitch thinks he can roll over on me?" Carmine Falcone's voice rang into the deepest reaches of the restaurant. "After all we've been through together?"

"Mr. Falcone, we'll just send someone to take care of him, no big deal," a deep voice replied.

"No, we can't do that. It can't be one of our guys – not with this deal coming up. I can't afford to blacken my reputation after all this time." Rosalie could hear the ironic smile in her father's voice.

"The Salvatore deal, Mr. Falcone?"

"Yeah, that one, you idiot." There was a pause, then, "That gives me an idea, actually. Why not have one of their floozies take care of him? As a… a show of good faith. Yeah… yeah. I like it. Why don't you run over there now and let the bastards know they've got a job to do?"

"Okay, Mr. Falcone."

Rosalie looked toward Angelo, who was now wiping down the stainless steel counters. He paused once in his cleaning to glance at Rosalie, then, seeing she was staring at him, reapplied his cloth to the already spotless surfaces.

"Angelo?!"

"Jesus, Rosie, you don't have to scream at me!"

"Angelo, for as far as _he's_ been back, he's hated the Salvatores. What does he mean, he's making a deal with them?"

"Maybe he doesn't hate them so much anymore," Angelo replied sulkily.

"Yeah, I'm sure he's developed a deep friendship with all the police in the city as well," Rosalie rolled her eyes. "Angelo, you know something, and I think you should…"

"I think I should keep my mouth shut… so that's what I'm gonna do. I'm a cook. I don't know anything about anything. Got it, kid?"

Rosalie opened her mouth to reply, but was stopped from vocalizing her remark as Carmine Falcone called back to the kitchen. "Angelo? Is Rosalie still in there with you?"

"Yeah, boss," Angelo said as Rosalie violently shook her head.

"Tell her to come out here."

"Thanks a lot, Angelo," Rosalie hissed as she passed through the swinging doors. She knew she looked a mess; helping Angelo clean the kitchen after a night at capacity tended to do that for her. Her jeans were covered in splatters of grease, sauce, and other unidentifiable objects, and her dark green shirt was still half-soaked from dish-washing splashes. If there was anything Carmine actually revered, it was cleanliness. This was not going to be a pleasant encounter.

Trying to smooth back stray strands of hair into her ponytail, Rosalie reluctantly took a seat across from her father, who, as predicted, looked across at her disapprovingly.

"You shouldn't be working back in the kitchens," he started. "It's below you."

Rosalie kept silent. After years of practice, she had learnt to keep her tongue under control around her father, especially after mindless insults like these. He hadn't brought her out here to talk about her appearance, at any rate. Rosalie thought she had better save her more acidic responses until she knew what her father really wanted to talk about. So she sat, with her hands together on the table in front of her, and waited for Carmine Falcone to continue.

"But, if you were back there, you probably heard what me and Joe were talking about."

Rosalie inclined her head in agreement.

"The Salvatores are finally seeing some sense," her father continued, "and they're willing to join up with us."

"Us?" Rosalie quirked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, us. And if you got a problem about that, you better get over it real quick."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

Carmine Falcone smiled. "You don't know much about the diplomatic side of the business, do you? The way I see it, it's like two countries, joining together in an alliance. You know, like in the history books. You should know all about that, considering all the money I spent to put you through school."

Rosalie narrowed her eyes. "I'm sorry, I just don't see the parallel."

"You will. Two nights from now," Carmine held up two beefy fingers, "the Salvatores will be coming in to meet the Family. They'll also be wanting to meet my family. They're nice people, once they start cooperating." He smiled. "Their son wants to meet you."

"Oh, really? And I suppose this is were the two countries joining in alliance come into play?!" Rosalie stood up quickly from her seat and prepared to make her way up the stairs to her room.

"I expect you to look your best," Carmine called after her.

Two nights later, Rosalie Falcone dressed slowly, feeling as though she was going to her last meal. Giulietta had silently brought in a plain black dress and laid it on her bed. Rosalie rubbed the cloth between her fingers. It had clearly been beautifully made by her mother, and she wished she had a happier occasion to wear it for. Placing a silver cross around her neck, Rosalie sat down on her bed and allowed Giulietta to comb through her dark hair.

"It won't be so bad, _la mia princepessa_," she soothed. "Who knows? Your father will probably change his mind." Giulietta lowered her voice considerably. "You know he doesn't stick with things very long."

A sort of hysterical giggle came erupting from Rosalie's throat, and she turned to bury her head in her mother's chest, a gesture that reminded Giulietta of Rosalie as a little girl – turn to Mama, and everything will be better. Turn to Mama, and everything will go away.

Giulietta ran her hand over her daughter's head, and thought.

"Hey, Rosie, you clean up real good."

"Thanks, Angelo," Rosalie responded. "I suppose this is what you didn't know anything about?" She lifted her eyes to meet his, and was surprised to see the huge man's blue eyes watering with tears. Swiftly, she crossed the kitchen and hugged him around the middle. "It's all right Angelo, it's not like I'm dying or anything." Then, before she started to tear up as well, Rosalie walked into the restaurant proper, her heels clicking and fading away on the wood floor.

"You might as well be, kid," whispered Angelo. "You might as well be."

"Demitri, this is my wife, Giulietta, and my daughter, Rosalie."

"Pleased to meet you both," Demitri Salvatore nodded his head at Giulietta and Rosalie before turning to his own family. "This is Isabella, and this," he paused significantly, "is Alexander."

The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy seemed to be a little older than Rosalie, she thought as he stuck out his hand to shake her father's. Handsome, too, she thought grudgingly. Not to mention being a member of the criminal underground! another voice in her mind spoke up. This is not your path, Rosalie. This is i not your path /i ! Rosalie closed her eyes briefly. i Il mio percorso /i . In other words, keep your eyes on the prize, Rosie.

"Why don't the two of you sit at that table, Rosalie?" Carmine's voice was silky as he pointed to a table for two back in an alcove, set up with gleaming dishes and a pair of lit candlesticks.

Alexander took Rosalie by the arm, and they made their way back to the table. Once he had helped her into his seat, and sat himself, Alexander raised his eyebrows. "Think they've overdone it a little bit?"

Rosalie stared back in surprise, and a half-laugh escaped her lips. "Just a little," she said tentatively. "I feel like I should be expecting a mustached violin player to show up. Good thing we don't employ any musicians here," she finished, raising her wine glass to her lips.

Alexander laughed. "I think we shouldn't expect anything less than a tenor singing _La Bella Notte_, personally."

Charming, too? Rosalie shook herself inwardly. She had seen her father be charming. In fact, she looked over toward where the four parents sat together, watching him gracefully kiss the hand of Isabella Salvatore. Her feelings must have shone on her face, because Alexander interrupted her thoughts.

"All joking aside," he murmured. "Are you agreeable?"

Rosalie was jerked back into reality. "Agreeable. That's quite a way to put it."

"Well, that's what it comes down to, isn't it?"

"No, not really. What it comes down to is what my father tells me to do. Didn't you know that?"

Alexander shrugged his shoulders. "I guess…" He lay one hand on the table, palm upward. They both heard laughter coming from the nearby table, and Rosalie instinctively looked, then brought her gaze back to man sitting across from her.

"You're actually going to let them dictate your life like this?" she said incredulously.

"Well, I wasn't that excited to spring for it, but…"

"But what?"

"Now that I've seen you…" Alexander smiled lazily, and Rosalie suddenly felt his other hand on her knee. Short of standing up abruptly, there was no way of removing it, although she edged to the far side of her chair.

"... I think they might be able to tell me to do this, with no problem. 'I, Alexander Seth Salvatore take you, Rosalie…'"

Rosalie felt his hand moving up her thigh, and snapped. "Your initials are A.S.S.? As in 'asshole?!'" Rosalie shoved her chair back and picked up her wine glass, dashing its contents into Alexander Salvatore's face. He leapt up, his face contorted in anger, lifting his hand in the air, when…

Rosalie heard the two men from the front of the restaurant trying to stop someone from coming in. Both she and Alexander turned to face the commotion, and watched as a young man with dark, shaggy hair made his way to Carmine Falcone's table, murder written in his eyes. One of the men frisked him while he stared at Carmine, his jaw clenched, and Rosalie heard the two words she never thought would come out of her father's mouth.

"Bruce Wayne."

Let go by the two bodyguards, Bruce was shoved down into the seat which Demitri Salvatore had just vacated. He found himself staring into the surprised face of Giulietta Falcone, and then looked across the table at Carmine.

"You don't even have a gun? I'm insulted!" Carmine said playfully. "You know, you didn't have to come all the way down here to thank me, a note would have sufficed."

"I didn't come here to thank you," Bruce hissed. "I came down here to tell you that not everyone in Gotham's afraid of you. You may not have killed my parents, Falcone, but you're the reason they're dead. You're the reason Joe Chill is dead."

Carmine's eyes narrowed, and his voice lowered to a hiss. "Kid, you don't know the meaning of being afraid. You come down here with your self-righteous attitude, wanting to save the world from the big bad wolf? Take a look around you. That's a judge, sitting over by the bar. Two police commissioners, enjoying a drink and some friendly company. And you know what?" Carmine made a sudden movement, and a revolver was staring Bruce Wayne in the face. "I wouldn't give a rat's ass about shooting you dead right here. Now that's power you can't buy, kid. _That's_ the power of fear."

Rosalie stood, stunned, and felt a familiar arm creeping over her shoulder. "Let's get outta here," a low voice whispered, hot breath flowing on her ear.

"_No_!" Rosalie shrieked, and brought her elbow back into Alexander Salvatore's stomach. Momentarily distracted, both Carmine Falcone and Bruce Wayne looked back into the alcove to see Alexander doubled over, breathing heavily and holding onto his chair for support.

"You… bitch…!" he shouted between breaths, and made a violent movement with his hand. Rosalie closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to fall, but it never came.

Angelo had Alexander's elbow gripped in his huge hand, and brought it crashing to the table.

"You broke my arm, you bastard!" Alexander cried, holding his injured arm, while Demitri said, "This is the kind of deal you like to make, Carmine? Forget it! We don't need this kind of treatment."

Both Carmine and Demitri erupted into red-faced, yelling tyrants, and the restaurant Carmine's was thrown into chaos.

It only took an instant, though, for Rosalie's eyes to meet Bruce's. Then he turned around and ran out the door, shedding his coat as he went. Rosalie stared out after him, but felt soft hands pulling at her own.

"Rosalie! Now is your chance! Hurry, my love, hurry!"

Giulietta Falcone paused to smile at Angelo before she ran through the kitchen and out the back door, her daughter at her heels.

"Rosalie, Rosalie! We haven't much time." Giulietta looked over her shoulder warily before continuing. "I will not let you stay here and become a part of this world, more than you already have. I will not let the man Carmine Falcone use you for his wicked things. You must… you must go away from here." She breathed in. "But I must stay."

Stopping Rosalie's protest with one hand, she continued, "There is no way out for me, Rosalie, I am already in too deep. I could never get away. But you…" she smiled gently. "You can have a chance at a start in another life. I would like to be selfish and ask you to visit me, but I would also like to be unselfish and ask you to always stay away. I think you must make that choice, though.

"Here – take this. Go here, my love – it is the _poliziotto buon_, he will take you in." Giulietta shoved a piece of paper into Rosalie's hand, and Rosalie glanced down to see a name and address scrawled in her mother's handwriting – "Sgt. Jim Gordon."

Quickly, Giulietta embraced her daughter, and then they ran together to the elevated train station and up to the platform.

"Don't say anything. Please. Just go, go with my blessing."

As the train pulled up, Giulietta pressed her daughter to her once more. "You are no longer Rosalie Falcone – you must forget that name and the place it came from. I give you the name you should have had, _princepessa_."

The train doors were opening, and Giulietta whispered one last thing in Rosalie's ear before she let go.

"Go. _Ti amo_. Don't look back… Rosa Ducard."


	4. our superman

"You sure you don't want a taste of this, Gordon?"

Toby Fleiss waved a wad of money under Sgt. James Gordon's nose, who involuntarily pressed his head into his car seat, raising a hand to decline the greasy notes.

"Ducard?" Fleiss directed his question to the woman in the backseat of the car, who shifted from the middle seat to the seat behind Toby, glancing at Gordon from the corner of her eye.

"Bite me, Fleiss," Rosa Ducard responded succinctly.

The fat man let out a low chuckle. "With pleasure, Ducard." He took a large chomp out of his hot dog to demonstrate, and Rosa rolled her eyes.

"You know, you two, the rest of us get a little nervous when you don't want to grab a part of the take," Fleiss continued. "When you won't play with the rest of us," he grinned, turning around slightly to look at Rosa.

"I didn't join the police force to 'play,' Fleiss. Unlike most of you, I actually want…"

"We're no rats, Fleiss," Gordon cut in, placing a hand on Rosa's shoulder. "In a town this messed up, who's there to rat to, anyway?"

The tension was gone with that statement, and Fleiss laughed, spraying hot dog crumbs over the steering wheel. "That's true," he said, "that's very true." He pressed the gas pedal suddenly, and the car screeched from the front of the convenience store and began to make its way toward The Narrows's police station. He braked just as abruptly in front of the station, waiting as Jim Gordon opened the car door to get out. As his foot went toward the gas pedal again, Fleiss heard the unmistakable click of an automatic weapon near his ear.

"Very funny, Fleiss, but I'm getting out too," Rosa put the safety back on her gun as she slid over to the far side of the car seat, then got out and stood beside Sgt. Gordon, one hip cocked, staring fiercely at the fat man who was now stuffing the pilfered bills into his pockets.

Rosa turned away, disgusted, and stalked up the steps, opening the door and waiting to hear it shut behind her with a satisfying slam. It didn't, of course, as Gordon caught the door on his way in and shut it softly. "Rosa…"

"I know, I know. Don't irritate the cops who're just rotting from the inside. Don't rattle the cages." Rosa sighed heavily as she turned around to face the man who had been like a father to her for the past seven years.

"It's more than that, Rosa, and you know it. If you decide to get too testy, someone's going to notice. They think you're dead," he added in an undertone. "Any overly-different behavior, and they'll take you back. We've been over this a hundred times, Rosa." Jim ran his hand through his thinning hair, then took Rosa's arm.

"I think you should go home," he said as the made their way up to Gordon's office. "Another night of staying 'till morning and you won't have enough energy to talk back to Fleiss, and really, that's the main highlight of my day."

"All right, fine, Jim, you win… but just – try to work on the Falcone case, will you? I _know_ I can do something, if I keep working at it, maybe another brain on the case will help?"

Gordon sighed. "You've got to let it go, you know. He's not going to be brought down on our steam, at least not until we get someone influential on the right side…"

"Someone like Superman? Yeah, that would work…. If you see anybody flying around, Jim, let me know, okay?"

"Rosa, you've got to relax. Go home, take a hot bath, read a good book…" seeing her expression, Gordon added, "… and I'll stay here for a bit, okay? I'll just… look over our files on your father—" Gordon slapped himself mentally as a Rosa's rage rushed over him.

"That man is _not_ my father, Jim. Not past impregnating my mother, he's got no claim over me. You should know that better than anyone!" Rosa's voice was raised into a shout, and Gordon placed his hands on her shoulders.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. I slipped up. Hard to believe, but it happens sometimes, right? Hey, come here."

Rosa reluctantly let herself be brought into an awkward hug, and she relaxed slightly, patting Jim's back with one hand. "What your - - Carmine Falcone does is not your fault, Rosie. All right?" Gordon pulled back to look into Rosa's face, and placed his hand under her chin. "Okay?"

"Okay," Rosa gave Jim a half-smile, then sniffed loudly and rubbed her hand under her nose.

"Such a lady," Jim chuckled, then took a seat behind his desk. grabbing the topmost manila folder from a pile on top of a filing cabinet.

Rosa watched him carefully, sitting on the corner of his desk, then leant down to kiss him softly on the top of his head. "Thanks, Jim," she smiled genuinely for the first time that night. "And hey, I might even take your advice. Grab a romance novel, hop in the tub…."

"A romance novel?" Jim suppressed a grimace. "More like 'The Life and Times of Marie Curie,' or something else that's intelligent."

"There's always your Superman comics," Rosa said.

"Those are vintage. You touch those, and I'll have to kill you, and then there's only one honest cop left in Gotham. Do you really want to be responsible for that, Rosa? Now get out of here before I decide to put you in solitary to keep you from working."

"All right, all right, I'm going," Rosa quipped, snapping Jim with her coat on her way out.

A few minutes later, Gordon smiled as he looked out the window, watching Rosa cross the street, walking toward the condominiums across the alley from the station. "And they think _I'm_ a nut for being committed to the job," he muttered to himself, making sure Rosa made it safely through the front door.

As he reassured himself of her safety, Sergeant James Gordon heard a click behind him, and something hard was suddenly pressed to the back of his neck.

ooooo

Rosa waved good-bye to her next-door neighbor, an elderly lady who often made a hot dinner for her, after helping the older woman collect her bulky groceries and lifting the heavier ones onto her kitchen counter. She then entered her small apartment with a sigh, shutting the door behind her and engaging all six of the locks. When she turned twenty-three, and became a part of the Gotham police force, Jim had offered her a continuing place in the home where he lived – with his sister and her young children. It wasn't a burden at all for Rosa to be there, he insisted, in fact, his sister Ashley frequently made use of Rosa as a babysitter to her three children – two rambunctious, ever-energetic boys and one quiet girl. But he understood when Rosa said she wanted her own place; even Jim would have liked to have that luxury once in a while. But the house that he and Ashley jointly owned was in a better part of the Narrows : near the bridge that connected it with the island that was the wealthy part of Gotham. Rosa's apartment building, although it was convenient for her work, was placed in a much seedier area. The fact didn't bother Rosa, though. After all, she had grown up in the worst part of the Narrows, and her apartment seemed to her to be one of the friendliest places she had ever been, barring her short visits to Wayne Manor as a child.

She didn't mind the relative danger she lived in – Jim had enrolled her in safety defense classes, paid for by the Gotham police for its women officers, of which there were very few. There, Rosa learned the basics of fending off an attacker. But all it took was for someone to recognize her, Rosa would tell herself, imagining two men, much like the ones who stood at the front of Carmine's, dragging her off down an alley or shoving her into a car. Every time she envisioned this, Rosa applied herself with new vigor to learning all sorts of self-defense and get-away techniques. Jim taught her to be silent and stealthy, not only for coming up behind criminals, but for her everyday life. After four years of practice, Rosa considered herself somewhat of an expert when it came to defending herself, or others.

Shaking herself from the unpleasant thoughts, Rosa looked around her home with fondness – the entrance gave way immediately onto a small kitchen on the left; further on, a sofa and two matching chairs were gathered in a circle, a desk covered with paperwork standing near the window that looked out onto the police station. A short hallway led to a small bedroom on the right; the end of the hallway held a sink and cupboards for toiletries, and there was a bathroom on the left. Therein lay the only luxury Rosa allowed herself – an old, claw-footed tub which Jim had installed for her, large enough for her tall frame to spread out in without being cramped. A column of a shower and a cranky toilet finished her bathroom. Her apartment as a whole was Spartan – Rosa didn't go in for comfort articles, just things that were practical. She supposed this had come from her distaste of the decadent lifestyle that her father had led.

Turning the hot water tap so that there was a comforting rush of water into the tub, Rosa went across the hall into her bedroom and lovingly hung up her police uniform next to her two spares. She picked off a speck of flint from the jacket, letting it fall to the floor. She placed her black shoes on their shoe trees, and slid her feet into some slippers, wrapping herself in a terry-cloth robe that was a hand-me-down from Ashley.

The tub was full now, and Rosa slipped out of her slippers and robe and slid into the tub with a contented sigh. She breathed in deeply, the steam from the hot water feeling her lungs and nose. Leaning her head back on the bathtub's rim, Rosa closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift away from itself…

But she was pulled out of her reverie by a loud crash that seemed to shake her whole apartment. Immediately wary, Rosa sat up in the tub and glanced toward the bathroom door, cursing herself because she had forgotten to lock it. After all, she thought briefly, you'd think that six locks would keep intruders out. Well, she amended, sane intruders, who would know that crashing through windows isn't the best way to break and enter. She smiled wryly. It was just bad luck that this particular dumbo had decided to break into her home – she, who was excellent in defense, a fully trained policewoman, and not to bad at aiming a gun, either.

Rosa drew her robe around her and tied it tightly, her wet hair falling around her shoulders, and slowly made her way to the bathroom door, careful to not make any noise. She could hear the intruder bumbling around on the floor, and heard a deep voice saying a few choice swear words. Male, she mentally noted, probably injured. She cracked the door open and stared out down the hallway – she was right. The man was holding his left arm and kneeling on the floor, his mouth showing through his ski mask in a tight line.

She crept across the hallway into her bedroom and quietly slipped a gun out of her holster, then, on a second thought, grabbed a pair of handcuffs as well. The next part, she smiled to herself, was easy.

"_Freeze_!" Rosa shouted, jumping out into the hallway and aiming her gun straight at one of the man's legs. Shoot to injure, not to kill, she reminded herself. "Freeze, or I shoot!"

The man on the floor groaned, and mumbled, "Of all the luck…"

"Right. Of all the luck, you decided to crash into my apartment. Good job, you found me. I assume you know that smashing a window to let yourself into a private dwelling is officially classified as breaking and entering?" Rosa began edging toward the man, whose hands were now behind his head.

"That's right, bud, and keep 'em there." As she neared, Rosa noticed the man's torso was garbed in something that looked like a bullet-proof vest, but for the fact that if covered his arms. His thighs and shins seemed to be covered in the same material too, and Rosa inwardly groaned. A smart-dumb criminal. She looked out the window, from her fifth floor apartment, and gazed dazedly at the roof of the police station, where she thought she recognized Jim looking back her way.

"It's okay, I've got him!" she shouted, keeping her gun trained on the man in black.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you," he began.

"Damn straight you're not," Rosa snapped. "Finally, the Gotham police can catch someone. And you're not going to be let free, there's nobody to bribe, goad, or 'persuade' here."

"You're honest? But the Sergeant said…"

Rosa's eyes widened. "Sergeant? As in Sergeant Jim Gordon? Hey, who the hell are you anyway?!"

"Yes, Sergeant Jim Gordon. I had a few questions to ask him."

"Such as…?"

"How this city can finally take down Carmine Falcone."

"What?!" Rosa meant it to come out as a shout, but her exclamation came out hoarse.

The man turned to face her, and Rosa could see dark eyes shining through the holes in his mask. "I said, I asked him what we need to do to finally take down Carmine Falcone." He spoke slowly, his voice gruff, and slowly lowered his hands from his head.

"_We_?"

"I take it you're Gotham police force?"

"Clever boy," Rosa said sarcastically.

"Thanks," he answered in the same tone. "Do you think you could possibly put your gun down now?"

"Right, because I'm really that stupid," Rosa hissed.

"_Rosa_! _Rosa_!" There was pounding at the door, and Rosa recognized the voice of Jim Gordon. "All six locks _again_?"

"One can never be too careful!" Rosa yelled back, looking pointedly at the man in black. She thought she detected the corners of his lips turn up, but he put his head down too quickly for her to be sure.

"Let him go, Rosa, he's…" Jim Gordon searched for a word. "We're…" again, his trail of thought failed him. "I'm going to trust him."

"Gordon, are you crazy? The man just jumped through my window!"

"I can pay for that to get fixed, sorry…" the man mumbled.

"You can shove your money up your…"

"_ROSA_! I'm serious, now. Let him go. He was… he…." There was pounding on the door again. "Rosa, goddamnit, I just saw a man fly through the air, and you're holding him hostage!"

"Fly through the…?" Rosa dropped her gun in surprise, turning to face her door, and in a flash, the man was up from the floor and had jumped out the window – down five flights. Rosa rushed up to the broken glass, and gasped as he landed on the ground, paused for a moment, and then began to run.

"Rosa! Open this door before I shoot it down!" Gordon shouted urgently. In a minute, he was face to face with a soaking wet Rosa, whose mouth was hanging open in wonder.

"Jim… I think we found our Superman."


	5. la rosa rossa

Rosa Ducard sat down at her desk, looking at the items collected on its surface and checking them against her list for the hundredth time.

One black cloth mask with the eyes cut out, a rudimentary red rose embroidered where the mask met the right side of her forehead, painstakingly sewn by Ashley.

One bullet-proof vest issued by the Gotham Police Department, for its undercover women officers. Pitch black, with a sweetheart neck and thin enough to fit under a dress or shirt of the same sort of cut.

One pair of black pants.

One long-sleeved black bolero.

Rosa ticked off the items on her list with a pencil, then looked at the vase sitting on the furthermost corner of her desk. It was hard to bring herself to look at its contents; even knowing they were sitting there was making her heart beat against her ribcage. But for the sake of formality, Rosa Duard looked over at the flowers in the vase, freshly watered and cut.

One dozen red roses.

ooooo

"You're certain that's all he asked you about?"

"Rosa, this is the tenth time I've gone over it with you. He wanted to know what it would take to bring down Carmine Falcone, I told him that the judge in charge was rotten, and it would take some leverage to make him cooperate."

"Anthony Faden, that prick," Rosa was pacing in front of her window, which was covered in blue tarp. It fluttered every so often as a strong gust of wind hit it. The first few times the tarp had moved, Rosa had instinctively jumped and aimed her gun, remembering the man who had jumped through it just the night before. Now, though, she was used to it. It even seemed to give her strength, this strange jerking of blue tarp that was so like the movements of someone jumping toward her.

Jim Gordon sighed and nodded. "I told him we needed someone who'd be brave enough to prosecute against anyone who belonged to Falcone…"

"… and he answered 'Rachel Dawes?'" Not for the first time, Rosa gathered her hair behind her head and then over her shoulder, the only tell of nervousness that she had. "How would he even know who she is?" She asked herself softly. "She's just begun to do her own trials; the D.A. has only given her one trial dealing with the crime lords," Rosa thought out loud. She had been waiting for Rachel the day they had tried one of Carmine Fdalcone's goons, and had shared Rachel's frustration when Dr. Jonathan Crane had again pronounced the man insane, allowing him to escape the prison system for a comfortable padded cell at Crane's own place of work : Arkham asylum.

She had never seen Rachel so enraged until that day, in fact. To come right out and accuse a man as powerful as Crane with corruption, or at the very least, collusion with Carmine Falcone, was often equal to a death sentence in the city of Gotham, and Rosa had mentioned as much.

"Rosa, come off it," Rachel had snapped after she was reprimanded slightly by her boss. "Just because you can't do anything about it without drawing attention to yourself gives you no excuse to get angry at me when I do."

There had been an awkward pause, where Rosa noticeably stiffened, staring determinedly at the ceiling tiles.

"Oh God, Rosie, I'm sorry, you know I didn't mean…"

"It's all right Rachel." The response came out in a rush, but in clipped tones.

"No, it's not, I wasn't thinking…"

"You're right. I can't do anything about it – not as myself, anyway. And unless there's been a magical appearance changing device suddenly invented…" Rosa trailed off, shrugging her shoulders and trying to laugh off the awkward situation.

Rachel had laid an arm on her friend's shoulders. "You're doing all you can, Rosie," Rachel shifted a file higher onto her hip, and then added, "Come on, without you, we wouldn't have even gotten close to this creep."

"Only to let him loose again at Dr. Crane's facility…"

Rachel looked at Rosa with compassion. Yes, she knew, it couldn't have been easy to be Rosalie Falcone, masquerading under the flimsy name of Rosa Ducard. Her father had been right, Rosa had grown up to look exactly like her mother : anyone who decided to take a closer look could see that.

"I'll start working on the transmogrification machine right away, 'kay Rosie?"

Rosa had given a half-laugh. "Right," she said. "Rachel…" she began, as Rachel started to walk toward her car to make her way back to the D.A.'s office. "You know how much I admire you, don't you? Past all the jealousy for your shockingly gorgeous good looks," at this, Rachel made to punch Rosa lightly in the shoulder, but with great practice, Rosa caught the fist in her open hand. "Short term memory – clearly a sign of losing a case," Rosa laughed, then pointed to herself. "Police officer, remember? Anyway," she continued her train of thought, "You're able to do something about all this, and I… I… I wish I could do that," Rosa whispered.

"You are, in your way," Rachel responded before lowering herself into her car.

Rosa thumped the top of Rachel's light blue car a couple of times before waving her off, then whispered to herself, "My way isn't good enough."

Now, talking with Jim Gordon, Rosa sat in the overstuffed armchair across from his. "And then he asked you about the drug imports," she confirmed. "Why nobody's there…" her voice trailed off. "D'you think that he might be trying to…?"

"Rosa, I don't know what to think anymore," Jim cut her off. "But whatever he's doing, he's going to do it without any help. At least, that was his impression."

Rosa's lips turned up. "His impression. Exactly."

"Rosie, is it worth trying to talk you out of this once more?"

Rosa Ducard reached for the cloth mask behind her and turned around, inviting Gordon to tie it in a knot just below her bun.

"I suppose that's my answer," Jim sighed, then gave the knot an extra tug. "Good thing I was a Boy Scout," he said.

"I wouldn't have expected anything less," Rosa said, laughing. Then she stood and turned slowly in a full circle. "Well, Gordon? What do you think?"

"You look like a highway marauder."

Rosa smiled, and ran her black-gloved hands over her stomach, encased in bullet-proof material. She felt for the revolvers in the discreet holster attached to her trousers, then bent down to feel for the knife hidden in her left boot. Well, if there's one thing I learned from dear old Dad, she thought, the making of an ironic smile on her face, it was how to hide deadly weapons effectively.

His forehead etched with equal parts of worry and admiration, Sergeant Jim Gordon walked over to Rosa's desk and pulled the dripping roses out of their vase, then methodically began to rip off the petals. The red roses were soon nothing but dark green stems with thorns, and Gordon carefully placed the petals in a black pouch, then handed it to Rosa.

"Before you go – there's one more thing."

"Perfect timing, Gordon," Rosa rolled her eyes. "What else is there? Does the guy have x-ray vision too?"

"No," Gordon replied, "but he told me… to watch for his sign."

"How cryptic."

"Yeah," Gordon responded, scratching the back of his head. "Hey," he said softly. "Good luck, you."

"Don't worry about me, Gordon," Rosa said bluffly. "Personally, I'd be more concerned with by my rusty Boy Scout skills if I were you. Better study your knots after I leave."

"Ha. Right," Jim Gordon said, then pulled the blue tarp aside, watching a slim figure in black make her way down the fire escape to the vacated street below.

ooooo

The docks of Gotham rarely saw much legitimate activity once darkness fell. During the day, these particular docks were owned by Wayne Enterprises for importation of goods and exportation of products. Because such a wealthy corporation owned the port, it was generally well-kept, its warehouses kept in neat lines with a clear grid path between them all.

No one knew if Carmine Falcone had a contact with Wayne Enterprises, or if he was using his own particular brand of getting all his ducks in a row. Either way, on the third Saturday of the month for the past five, a barge carrying what appeared to be stuffed bears and rabbits arrived at the docks, and were quickly hauled off the boat by the box and into two of the lesser used warehouses, to be transported to their final destination in less then twenty-four hours' time.

Each crew member involved was paid handsomely for his role, both in cash and drugs. The payment was exceptionally high, however, for those who chose to ignore the difference in the cargo. The innocent-looking stuffed rabbits, beyond being placed in a separate warehouse, were treated as if they were never there.

Every shipment ran like clockwork : the barge always arrived at the same time, the same crew members were always used; as were the same warehouses.

Tonight, however, a few things were different.

A luxurious black car sat at the entrance to the docks, while a much more beaten model drew up next to the workers and parked with a screech. But these things in themselves weren't the most unusual presences at the first step in Carmine Falcone's drug distribution.

For tonight, a tall man swathed in black, dark brown eyes shining out of a black mask with two horn-like points stood silently between the two warehouses.

And a pair of green-blue eyes stared out of a cloth mask, eagerly taking in the scene in front of her.

_La Rosa Rossa_ was ready. So, though she didn't know it, was the figure who would come to be known as Batman.

Their eyes watched as a fat man got out of his car with not a little effort, his greasy hair shining with sweat. He walked up to one of the boxes, smiling at two of the crewmen, who were at a loss. No one had ever come to the docks while the animals were being unloaded : they were always paid by an anonymous white envelope appearing in their mailboxes the day after a successful delivery.

"What is this?" the fat man said, leaning over into one of the crates and pulling out a teddy bear. Deftly, he ripped its head off and examined it closely, then pocketed the contents. "Well, keep going!" His shout reassured the workers and they re-started the assembly-line of drugs into the warehouse.

Everything went back to its normal self. That is, until a hoarse shriek was heard from the maze of warehouses. The workers exchanged wary looks, and two of them set down their boxes and pulled automatic weapons out of nearby crates.

"Sykes?" One of them called warily, as they started to tread on the path into the warehouses, rickety lights swinging over their heads.

"Sykes?" The call went out again. In response, there was a sound of metal ringing against metal, and with a few sparks thrown in, the lights went out. One of the thugs knelt to pick up a steel object that had newly arrived on the floor. It had sharp edges – he quickly dropped it again to stick his newly bleeding forefinger in his mouth. His companion picked up the object more carefully, and looked at it closely. It resembled some sort of flying object. In his nervousness, he couldn't tell exactly what.

And something black suddenly dropped from the sky, then flew back up, leaving only the machine gun of the thug's companion behind.

Completely spooked now, the remaining worker let off a few rounds of his machine gun, which echoed infinitely against the metal of the warehouses. The echoes were accompanied by another sound – dimly, the thug looked up.

Someone was jumping from warehouse to warehouse.

Keeping his gaze on the murky ceiling above him, the remaining worker walked with agitation, frequently firing his gun at an echo, or what he thought must have been a step behind him.

Frustrated now, he yelled out, "Where are you?!"

A hoarse whisper came from behind him, "Here."

The man in black reached out his gauntleted hands to grab the worker and haul him to the top of the warehouses, but someone got there first.

The man fell to the floor, unconscious from a nasty kick to the head, and brown eyes met narrowed blue ones.

Still in mid-gesture, one black form wrapped its arms around the other, and both were sent skyrocketing to the ceiling of the main warehouse.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing here?" An angry whisper came from the darkness.

The other reacted quickly, and turned to the source of the voice. "I would ask you the same thing, but I think the answer's rather apparent," she hissed back.

The black form seemed at a loss for words, but wasn't for long. "There are still at least eight men down there."

"Not counting Carmine Falcone," came the rejoinder.

The man's lips tightened and his jaw stood out. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Neither are you."

He ground his teeth a few times, thinking quickly. Clearly, the woman, for the form was female, wasn't going away.

"All right. I've got the workers, you've got…"

"… Falcone?" he could hear a smile in her voice. "Gladly."

"Fine." It was clear there was going to be no more talking, for the man in black held onto the woman in black. She felt a rushing, falling sensation, and once more her feet met solid ground.

"Do you make that a habit?"

But the man had already made his way to the crowd of workers, who had gathered together, their backs facing each other, weapons of various degrees of fatality out and ready.

Barely looking behind her, _La Rosa Rossa_ made her way to the black car, noting that the figure in front was already slumped over the wheel. Fast work, she thought to herself, smiling.

The blazing of a car's headlights suddenly shone into her face, and _La Rosa Rossa_ rolled underneath her Carmine Falcone's car, her heart pounding. She watched as wheels zipped past her line of vision. "Fleiss," she muttered to herself. "What a coward."

Carefully rolling herself back out into clear space, _La Rosa Rossa_ slowly stood climbed to the the top of the car. Inside, she could her the sounds of a rifle cocked, waiting for its prey. The noise seemed to enrage her even further, and she drew the knife out of her boot, plunging it into the car's roof. She drew it back out again, then quickly leant back as a pair of holes appeared as well – clearly, her father hadn't appreciated the intrusion.

He was muttering nervously to himself, and _La Rosa Rossa_ had leant forward again when the car rocked with the weight of a person landing on it.

"What the hell are you?!" came the call from inside the car.

Flicking her eyes toward the man in black, _La Rosa Rossa_ cocked her head toward the holes in the roof, and the man plunged his hand in, then drew out Carmine Falcone by the collar so that they were inches away from each other's noses.

"I'm Batman," said the figure, and crashed his head onto Falcone's, who slumped immediately.

"Batman?" _La Rosa Rossa_ hissed. "Out of all the names, you choose '_Batman_?'"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I should've consulted you on the matter," the man finally let his voice raise into a shout. "Do you like 'The Dark Fairy Princess' better?!"

"Yes," _La Rosa Rossa_ mumbled rebelliously.

"_Terrific_!" The man shouted, the hauled Carmine Falcone out of the hole in the rood and laid him on the car.

"Are you going to put him in?" _La Rosa Rossa_ said, smiling, gesturing to the trunk.

"No. I'm not." "Batman" had now bent toward the unconscious Falcone, and had taken his coat off. He began ripping it into strips.

"What do I do?"

"You can get out of here," came the sharp reply.

"Like that's really…"

"Look," the man lifted his head from his work. "I came here with a plan. You're not a part of it. So _piss. Off_."

"Right, I'll go tie the workers up then." She rose, and began to jog toward the unloading crew. "Oh, wait!" _La Rosa Rossa_ shouted, then doubled back to the black figure on the car. "I almost forgot." Reaching into her right boot, _La Rosa Rossa_ pulled out a black pouch and almost reverently opened it. Dipping a gloved hand in, she drew out a few rose petals, and tucked them in the shirt pocket of the prone Carmine Falcone. Finished, she once again began to run toward the dock workers.

"What was that for?" Batman shouted after her.

_La Rosa Rossa_ stopped, turned around, and called back in what was an imitation of a male voice, "So that the Falcones should know that this is my job."

ooooo

They stood together, surveying their work.

"We haven't got much time," Batman murmured. "If you called the police when you said you did…"

"… which I did,"_La Rosa Rossa_ snapped.

"… then they should be here any minute," Batman continued as if she had not interrupted. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"With pleasure," _La Rosa Rossa_ smiled, then walked over to the huge light that, when on, marked the docks. She pulled the lever down, and thousands of watts' worth of light suddenly shone into the night.

Looking into the night sky, _La Rosa Rossa _spread her arms in imitation of the figure strapped to the enormous light. "Your signal," she whispered to herself.

"Yes." She hadn't been expecting a response, in fact, she thought she was talking too quietly to be overheard, but she turned and faced Batman after he responded.

"Bats, huh? Kinda creepy."

"It's better than… whatever you're supposed to be. 'Le Toreador,' perhaps?" he said, reaching out and fingering the sleeve of her bolero.

"Funny, but no." She gestured to the red rose petals that she had left sprinkled around the scene.

"_La Rosa Rossa_," she whispered. "The Red Rose."

"Well, 'Rosa,'" Batman began, "a word of advice." He drew close to her and reached down, thwapping his knuckles on her bullet-proof-covered stomach.

"Lucius Fox. Wayne Enterprises." He said, then turned around and began to walk away.

"Right," _La Rosa_ responded. "Oh, Fairy Princess?" Batman whipped around, his jaw grinding.

"That cape makes you look like a girl."


	6. the pool area

"I can't believe you talked me into wearing this abomination," Rosa hissed sideways to the man holding her arm, Jim Gordon. "Or going to this place. Can you even afford this? I didn't know the Gotham Police Department paid their officers so well – if I did, I would have asked for a raise long ago."

"Rosa, can't you just graciously accept anything?" Gordon sighed as they waited in line to speak to the man behind the pedestal who was carefully checking parties against his reservation list.

In fact, Rosa couldn't believe that Gordon had gotten reservations to this place – the newly opened "The Grand Hotel" ("original name," she had murmured sarcastically) was supposed to be famous for its food and service at the restaurant on the ground floor, concurrently named "The Grand Restaurant."

"No, I can't," Rosa replied.

"Apparently you don't believe that I got the reservations for tonight on just my sparkling character and charming manner."

Rosa just looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

Gordon sighed. "Fine. I… helped… the owner out with some zoning problems." Plowing on in spite of Rosa's snort of derision, Gordon continued. "He promised me that I could have a reservation here whenever I wanted. Didn't really think I could use it, but hey, it'll pay for itself tonight, won't it?"

The pair came up on the host, and Gordon tugged at his ill-fitting suit before saying in a semi-confident voice, "Gordon, party of three. Our third member will be arriving separately."

"Oh, how sad. And here was me thinking we were out on our first date," Rosa whispered as they were escorted to a square table set with gleaming silver and plates. Rosa slid into the chair their host proffered, then watched him glide away back to his pedestal with its reservation book.

"So who's coming?" Rosa flicked a fingernail against her crystal water glass. Suddenly struck by a thought, she leant close to the table and whispered conspiratorially, "Did you get 'Batman' to come? Because I really don't think that the dress code means _that_ type of black suit."

"Stop with the wisecracking already. I know that it's hard for you, but please. Act like a lady?"

Rosa flicked her fingernail against her glass again, the contact sending a clear chiming sound throughout the restaurant. A server who had arrived with a clear cylinder of a water pitcher sent her a dirty look as he poured water into the offending glass. Rosa thought about sticking her tongue out at the server as he walked away, but thought better of it, and demurely placed her hands in her lap.

"Rachel's coming. She said she had some big news, and invited you over for cocktails or some such nonsense."

"Rachel invited me over. And we're… here? Thanks for telling me…?"

"She called you, but you weren't at home. I was 'at home.'" Gordon raised an eyebrow. "I didn't really think you'd want me telling her where you were. In fact, I didn't even know where you were. So you couldn't really take the call."

"Oh." Rosa deflated and proceeded to take a sip of her water to counteract the silent awkward moment that followed. Gordon carefully watched her reaction, and nodded.

"'Oh' is right. Rosa, you know you can tell me about it."

"I know. I'm just… not going to." She put one arm on the table and lay her head in her hand and looked back into Jim's face. "You saw the result of it, anyway. You don't need to know how it got that way."

There was the sound of high-pitched giggling laughter from the front of the restaurant, and both Jim and Rosa looked toward a rectangular table running down the middle of the room. There was a tall, dark-haired, well-dressed man speaking to the host.

"I'm sorry, sir, but your reservation is only for twenty-five. I'm afraid that the restaurant is at its full capacity tonight; we won't be able to seat one of your two… friends."

Apparently, the two rail-thin modelesque twenty-something's weren't listening – they sat on a chair together, squeezing together and laughing.

"Well I suppose that that's all right then?" The well-dressed man was saying, watching the two girls sit. "They'll probably only eat for one as well."

The host opened his mouth again, but the man was now sitting at the head of the long table and pulling a billfold out of his dinner jacket with a practiced ease. He plucked a bill out of it and handed it to the host, who stared for a moment and then turned straight around and practically marched back to his reservation pedestal, discreetly transferring the bill to his own jacket pocket.

The long table immediately lurched into conversation and the dark-haired man took a sip out of his water glass, a large ring glinting in the restaurant light from his pinky finger.

Jim and Rosa looked toward the table, completely silent throughout the whole ordeal. As the man set down his glass, they seemed to snap out of a trance as their heads slowly turned toward each other.

"Oh, so he's one of _those_…" Jim said quietly.

"You know him?" Rosa looked back for a split second to see the man place his hand somewhere under the table. I don't even want to know, she thought, turning back to Jim.

"Well, I don't _know_ him, but I know who he is. That," Jim jerked his head back toward the long table, "is Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce Wa…?" Now Rosa turned her torso back to see the now identified Mr. Wayne, and her mouth dropped open unabashedly. Her mind raced back to the night she had escaped from her home, picturing the younger man with the same dark eyes who had confronted her father, and had met her gaze for that moment before turning and running. "That's disappointing," she said softly. "I really thought he might make something of a difference." Then she thought further back, to a memory that she barely recalled, except for a squat boy sheltering a very young Rachel and sneering over at her. "Alfred, the mean girl is going home now," a taunting voice said clearly in her mind.

"But maybe not so unexpected," she finished. "I thought he had died, traveling somewhere off in the world? Somewhere… expensive?"

"So did I. Apparently not." Gordon was clipped, his eyes focused on the plate in front of him.

"Did he call you names too?" Rosa said, intrigued.

"No. But I was there the night… the night his parents were killed. He certainly didn't seem spoiled or pretentious or… capable of escorting two women simultaneously then. I suppose you wouldn't," Gordon mused, "at seven."

Rosa laughed. "No, I don't think the women thing comes on for about six or seven years."

"Oh, dear… Don't look now, but your favorite seven-year-old is making his way over," Gordon said under his breath, and he quickly pushed back his chair and stood up, sticking out his hand to shake Mr. Bruce Wayne's. Bruce was leaning over the table, his pinky-ringed hand holding back his tie while his other firmly shook Jim's.

"Hello. I'm sorry for interrupting your dinner…"

Rosa, whose eyes had been on the shaking hands in front of her, now snapped to attention. She could feel Gordon tensing as he wondered what might come out of her mouth.

"Please don't trouble yourself," she said, gesturing to a chair. "Would you like to sit down? After all, we only have three people in our party, and there are four chairs here…" she continued, her voice void of irony.

Bruce did a double take, his eyes drawing together. He wasn't quite sure if he had just been insulted, but then Rosa smiled very sincerely and sort of half-laughed.

Gordon looked at Rosa too. Perhaps it was because he had worked and lived at close proximity with her for seven years that he detected a hint of disgust in her eyes. He ran a hand over his mouth, watching the dynamic between the two shift from friendly to somewhat tense.

Then Bruce Wayne did what seemed to Gordon to be the unthinkable. He pulled out the chair next to Rosa's and sat.

"Thank you for the kind invitation," he said smoothly. "I promise I won't stay long. I just came over here because…"

"Wait, before you continue, let's introduce ourselves," Rosa broke in. "I'd love to know just who I'm talking to."

Oh Lord, Gordon thought as he slowly sat back down. Before either one of them could speak again he said, "Yes, lovely. I'm Jim Gordon, and this is Rosa Ducard."

"Jim, don't play yourself down!" Rosa said. "Jim is a sergeant with our local police force," she whispered playfully at Bruce, who didn't seem to hear anything she was saying.

"… and Rosa is one of our officers. We're just out for a celebration dinner. You might have heard, a main case of ours has just recently been quite neatly wrapped up. Carmine Falcone and his drug ring?"

Again, there was no answer from Bruce Wayne, who was still staring at Rosa, his mouth slightly hanging open.

Glancing at his expression, Rosa took up the conversation thread. "That's exactly the same reaction I had when I heard that Carmine Falcone had been tied up at the docks. Wayne Enterprises' docks, I think they were?"

The word "Wayne" seemed to jolt Bruce back into himself, and he smiled politely. "Well, please don't spread that around to the general public," he said jovially, "as I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Well, that's a bit embarrassing, isn't it, Jim? I wonder, Mr. Wayne, how _does_ it feel to have a mob boss tied to a searchlight on your company's property? It would send me positively bonkers."

It was the word "bonkers" that did it. She's snapped, Jim thought with an inward groan. Good God, she's gone and snapped.

"If it had to be somewhere, Ms. Ducard," Bruce said, putting a slight emphasis on her last name, "then I'm glad it was on Wayne property."

Nicely handled, Jim thought. Dodged and parried. His eyes inadvertently went back to Rosa, waiting for her reply in the verbal tennis match.

"How sweet of you," she said, but her facial expression was beginning to contradict her words. "Mr. Wayne, won't you tell us why you've graced us with your presence, you do have a party to get back to." Her veneer was slipping, and Gordon knew that Bruce Wayne had better leave the table soon, or he might get a sharp smack across the cheek.

"Yes," he said. "But please, Mr. Wayne, you were saying?"

"Oh yes. I'm sorry for interrupting your dinner, but I thought I had recognized you. I wanted to come see if I was neglecting a friend. You see, I just returned from seven years' sabbatical and I don't really know what everyone looks like anymore."

"You do have a long memory," Rosa began, but then quit mid-stride as she realized both of her previous encounters with the man sitting next to her had been as Rosalie Falcone. Her mind shut down.

"Very long, Mr. Wayne, you must be… twenty-eight now?" Bruce nodded, and Gordon continued. "It's been fourteen years then. I was one of the officers who were there when you came in after your parents'…" Gordon trailed off, his voice now sympathetic.

Bruce now looked at Gordon, and his own cultivated mask cracked. "Yes, yes I think I remember you. Gordon, was it?"

Thankfully for Rosa, a tall, lean man had just walked up to their table, and was leaning down and softly speaking to Bruce.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but your friends are… swimming… and I'm afraid that the pool area is for viewing purposes only…"

Bruce's hand reached into his jacket, and again he pulled out his billfold.

"Mr. Wayne, it's not a question of money," the man began.

"No, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm," Bruce signed his named with a flourish, "buying this hotel." He stood up, nodding to Jim and Rosa, and slipped the check into the manager's front pocket, where it stood out against the dark blue of his folded handkerchief. "And I'm going to be making some new rules about the pool area."

With that, Bruce Wayne smiled genially at the manager, and strode toward the narrow pools of water set into stone next to the glass entryway walls, and promptly got in, bottom first.

At the same moment, Rosa's head met the table and her shoulders began to shake violently.

Gordon put his arm around her, and they sat like that for a couple of minutes. Fortunately, no one was paying attention, as all eyes, both customer and server, were on the trio soaking and laughing in their formal dress.

"What… an arrogant… dickhead," Rosa said to the table.

Gordon couldn't really say anything to disagree with her.


	7. flying

Somewhere in Gotham, D.A. Tyler Finch was shining a flashlight through the grimy halls of a warehouse, two security guards flanking him. Coming to a stop in front of one of the storage units, he pointed at the lock.

"This one," Finch said, gesturing to one of the security guards in a motion that meant he should open it.

"This one? This is Carmine Falcone's stuff, Mr. Finch."

"So?"

"We don't need to know what Carmine Falcone's doing."

"Look," said Finch turning around and pointing his finger in the man's face. "Things are going to be a little different around here. The cargo list said there were one-thousand and forty-five units. This is the one-thousand and forty-sixth… so I'm guessing there's something in here I'm not supposed to see. Now, open it up!"

The two guards exchanged a wary look, and the first one hit the weather-worn padlock with the butt of his gun. After a few times, the padlock was undone, and its rusty pieces fell to the floor. Finch reached forward and pulled the heavy door open, then peered his head around the door. Confused, he swung it further out and stepped inside, shining his flashlight on the one object sitting in the middle of the storage unit.

A metal-like box sat there, a circular window showing none of the inner workings of the machine. There was a lever to one side, and when Finch looked closely, he could see deep grooves lining the window, as if the box was meant to expand. Stepping closer to the machine, Finch ran his hand over it.

"What the…" he exclaimed, seeing the telltale logo of "Wayne Enterprises" on the bottom of the rightmost side.

As he leant down to run his fingers over the embossed letters, Finch shuddered suddenly. A severe pain went shrieking through his stomach, and his hand automatically went to the place. It brought it away slowly, raising his hand toward his face. His fingertips were tinged with red.

It took a few more moments for Finch to realize he had been shot. He looked incredulously at the security guard, who, with a grim look on his face, poured a few more rounds into the D.A.'s body, making sure he fell to the floor and stayed there.

The other guard closed the door on both the machine and the dead man, and they walked away.

oooooo

Reluctantly, Rosa had agreed to dinner and a night over at the Gordon's. She sat still, patient as the two boys, Sam and Max, ran circles around her. Abby, the girl, sat quietly in front of Rosa as she braided the young girl's hair.

"Boom, boom! You're dead!" Sam shouted. He was wearing a black sweater and had a towel around his shoulders, held into place by one of his mother's brooches.

Max, who had a leg of one of Ashley's nylons over his head, the other leg dangling down his back, began to wail and fall to the floor, dragging out his death scene by occasionally getting on his knees or coughing dramatically, all the while letting out shouts of indignation. "I'll get you, Batman…"

"Not while I've got anything to say about it," Sam replied, flapping his towel fiercely and jumping on the couch next to Rosa. After a couple of frantic flaps, he stood on his tiptoes on the cushion, clearly "flying."

Abby had her thumb stuck in her mouth, her wide eyes watching the antics of her two older brothers. "Uncy Jim thayth that Batman put a bad guy away in prithon. Is that true, Rotha?" she said softly with her toddler's lisp.

"Mmmhmmm," Rosa replied absentmindedly. She was more than a little pissed off that no one had picked up on the whole "red rose" thing. "Batman has a great press agent," she said lightly to Abby, putting the finishing touches on her braids.

"Preth agent?" Abby parroted, squirming around in Rosa's lap till she was facing her. Rosa laughed as she ran her hand over Abby's newly decorated hair. Wistfully, she glanced toward the door, where a duffel lay, stuffed with her _La Rosa Rossa_ disguise. It had become a sort of security blanket, and Rosa carried it around with her always.

Abby snuggled herself further into Rosa's ribs, and she was brought back into reality by the weight of the four-year-old digging into her chest.

"Press agent. It means… someone who talks about you a lot so you can get famous." She hoped the little girl would understand her explanation, and Abby nodded her head solemnly.

"Kids! Rosa! Dinner!!" Ashley's voice called from the kitchen in the front room, and Rosa lifted Abby up, cradling her in her arms, and carried her to her highchair. Max and Sam reluctantly dropped their nylon stocking and towel, respectively, Max stuffing the nylon stocking in between cushions. They were vaguely aware that they shouldn't have borrowed their mother's clothing for such a thing as a make-believe adventure, even if it did deal with "Batman."

As they all settled into their chairs, Ashley served the goulash around to the kids, then passed a salad bowl around the adult side of the table.

Rosa was just picking a tomato out to top her salad when Jim smacked his head. "Well, that's wonderful. We missed the garbage for today, I totally forgot to put it out. I should do it now, I guess, that way I don't have to wait until next time." He got up from the table and went over to the kitchen sink, extracting a large plastic bag filled with garbage and strange odors, and crossed to the door.

He left it ajar as he went down the stoop, and Rosa heard the clanging of a garbage lid on a can. Then, it was silent. Jim slowly backed to the door and shut it with his hands behind him. He glanced sideways and up, and Rosa could see the profile of his face through the window from her spot at the table. She knew that face –

As quietly and quickly as she could, Rosa placed her napkin next to her plate and made a half-mumbled excuse to Ashley, then made her way to the door. Jim was now several feet to the side of it, so Rosa let down the blinds, and then, quick as lightning, opened the door, slid herself through, and shut it behind her with the minimal amount of noise.

"I need to know where the other half of the shipment was going," Batman was saying in his deep, growling voice.

"I-I don't know," Jim responded. "But," he added quickly, "I know the cop who covered the Falcone drug imports – Toby Fleiss. I don't know where he is right now, and he doesn't talk to anyone…"

"He'll talk to me," Batman said with confidence. Rosa didn't doubt it. Even if you knew that Batman was out doing good, his costume seemed to grow more frightening at each sight.

"I know where Fleiss is," Rosa said, stepping out of the shadow that the overhang on the stoop created. If she didn't know better, she would have thought that Batman had jumped, or jerked, or made some kind of sudden movement.

"Rosa…" Jim whispered under his breath, but Batman seemed to have heard.

"Officer Rosa Ducard, member of the Gotham Police Force," he growled.

"That's right. I know where Fleiss is – it's a Thursday night, so he's terrorizing the falafel stand down in the Narrows, at the junction of 121st and Vine. It's a T-intersection." Rosa paused, "You know, the police think you're just another one of the bad-guys, some public menace."

"What do you think?" Batman knelt down on top of the overhang.

Rosa opened her mouth to snap something back, but Jim interrupted her. Good thing, too, Rosa thought as Jim spoke.

"I think…. You're good, you want to give the city a chance." Rosa had been looking at Jim as he spoke, laying a hand on his shoulder, and Jim had been looking toward the ground. As they both looked up to the overhang, they realized that Batman had been gone. He had left no mark, as if he had never been there.

"… but I've been wrong before," Jim sighed.

"I don't think you're wrong, Gordon," Rosa replied. "I was there at the drug bust. I was watching him… I don't think you're wrong," she finished again lamely. "But I do think… that I should be making an appearance at 121st and Vine. Give me a chance to do something I've wanted to do since joining the police force." She smiled.

"And what's that?"

"Finally getting the chance to make Toby Fleiss realize just what a fat, smelly, thieving, dirty…"

Jim let Rosa go on for ten seconds worth of derogatory adjectives before interrupting. "Yup, got it. Now, do you want to use the bathroom to change or should I drive you to The Narrows and you can change in the backseat?"

Grinning, Rosa tapped her stomach, and a thumping sound was made. She pointed to the black pants and boots she was wearing, then said, "Already halfway there, bud."

oooooo

Ibrahim Oommen, the owner of the falafel stand that Toby Fleiss raided every Thursday night didn't know what to do about his large pest. It was arguable that he made the best falafel in Gotham, but that was a dubious honor because when word spread about great food that was cheap, a visit from Fleiss was soon to follow. On a good night, Ibrahim would make about 150 dollars profit, some of which he would stow in his pocket on Thursdays. But still, as Fleiss took an average of fifty dollars each time he passed by, for "protection," he said, that was one-third of the profit of an evening gone into Fleiss's considerably large pocket.

This evening was the same. Handing over the five dollars for falafel wrapped in Saran wrap, Fleiss dipped his greedy hands into the till (disguised as a condiment container) and pulled out several bills. Ibrahim watched, frustrated, as he counted the amount Fleiss took. Forty, fifty, fifty-five, fifty-seven… sixty-three dollars gone. More than the usual average.

Now frustrated with himself that he wasn't able to do anything about it, Ibrahim said in a high and loud voice, "Come on, I haff kids to feed!"

"What, they don't like falafel?" Toby smirked through a mouthful of his meal, then began to walk away from the stand. He didn't see the black figure approaching Ibrahim. Ibrahim didn't see it either.

There were two sharp taps on his back, and Ibrahim whipped around, scared to death that Fleiss had come to claim more. Instead, he found himself facing a slim black figure.

"How much did he take from you?"

"Pardon?"

"Simple question. How much. Did he take. From you."

Ibrahim looked at the figure through narrow eyes. This was definitely not the "Bat-man" everyone was raving about – for one thing, it was a girl. Still, scared of not speaking the truth to _any_ figure in black, especially in these times, he stuttered out an answer. "Six-sixty fife doll-ares."

The figure nodded, then dug into a pouch hanging from her waist. "Compliments of _La Rosa Rossa_," she said quickly. Two bills appeared on the falafel stand, and Ibrahim bent closer to inspect them. A fifty… and a hundred dollar bill! He straightened immediately to speak his thanks, but the woman in black had gone.

She had started to run the minute he turned toward his stand, watching as Toby Fleiss munched his way through the meal. Her eyes automatically flickered upward and a raindrop fell in her eye. It began to rain heavily just an instant after she felt it. "Convenient," _La Rosa Rossa_ murmured to herself.

Keeping one eye on Fleiss and another eye on the skyline, _La Rosa_ finally found him. There, up on the top of one building, kneeling on the fire escape. She could see something moving downward, but she couldn't tell what through the rain. Quickly, she ducked into a side street that would bring her out right where the fire escape began.

oooooo

Toby Fleiss was ridiculously caught by his foot, and was being elevated up and down, up and down. By the time _La Rosa Rossa_ arrived at the back of the topmost fire escape, she was watching him going down, then up, with her eyes only.

"I never knew! I swear to God!" Fleiss shrieked as he was held, upside down, next to Batman's snarling face.

"Swear to _me_!" Batman shouted back, then let the line drop again, brought it back up and down again, then settled with Fleiss back at his face.

"Okay! Okay! I heard the workers saying it was somewhere in the Narrows – some dump that they rented out before they took it away!"

Batman snarled a smile.

"But cops never go to The Narrows unless they're in full force!"

"Do I look like a cop to you?!" Batman growled, and then let Toby Fleiss freefall, till he was inches above the ground. A few seconds of hanging there, and Batman unhooked the line from his belt and let it fall. Staring down at his victim, Batman heard a voice behind him.

"You know, you could have just asked politely. I'm sure he would have told you."

"You _again_? How do you always manage to show up when I'm… I'm…"

"… working?" Rosa supplied, an eyebrow lifted. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Anyway, Fleiss didn't tell me a thing. There are thousands of dumps in the Narrows, and I can't spend the time investigating each one!"

"Again, just ask politely."

A silence fell over the two figures in black as Batman ground his teeth.

"Could you…_please_, tell me where the drugs are," he gritted out, losing patience by the second.

"Of course. There's tons of police records about the building. A couple there – The Graysons. They get into fights, the neighbors call the police, nothing happens. But there have been calls recently about a presumed-to-be empty apartment that the people living there consistently say makes noises… about once a month."

"You're sure." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yup. Now, unless you've got some fast ride around here, how do you propose we get there?"

"We?"

"Information? Lessons in manners?"

"Fine. Well," Batman grinned, "we fly."

"Uh… huh."_La Rosa Rossa_ was about to say something else when she felt arms go around her torso from the back, and they were suddenly jumping off the firescape, but instead of hitting the ground they miraculously missed it… and The Red Rose was honest-to-goodness, actually, literally… _flying_.


	8. discovery

_La Rosa Rossa_ caught her breath as she soared through the streets of Gotham. She felt, for an instant, a silly urge to fling her arms wide, like Lois Lane flying with Superman.

Well, he may be Superman, but I'm sure as hell not Lois Lane, _La Rosa Rossa_ thought with a smirk as she looked at the city life below her. Steam rose up from the streets, as well of the sounds of Gotham getting ready for the night. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the city that she both hated and loved. Above her, Batman made no sound or movement except for the occasional adjustment of his arms around her waist. _La Rosa Rossa_ wasn't about to turn and look at him, as impossible as it would be to come face to face in this awkward situation.

Suddenly, below her, there came the sound of a gunshot, and a high-pitched scream. Immediately, iLa Rosa Rossa/i disappeared and Rosa occupied her own body again. Her eyes popped open and she began squirming in Batman's grip.

"Stop! _Stop_!," she cried, as Batman flew on. "Someone's _hurt_ down there!"

"We don't have time," a growl came to her ear. "But if you keep moving around like that you just may be able to drop in on them. I doubt you'd be much use at that point, though."

Rosa gritted her teeth, her instincts crying out for her to aid the people below. Gordon was with his sister – it was unlikely that a dispatch would be sent to him, and he was really the only other person she trusted on the force. Furious now, she gripped Batman's arms, her knuckles and fingers beginning to hurt with the pressure.

"If you really want to try flying on your own, just keep that up," Batman said in a low voice, but he shifted his grip so she could hold on to his arms more securely.

They approached The Narrows in silence, and Rosa gave Batman terse instructions to the apartment complex that the empty-yet-noisy apartment was a part of. They reached it in a few more moments, and Batman settled on the fire escape, carefully setting Rosa's feet on the ground. For a moment, she felt dizzy, but she grabbed on to the railing of the fire escape until her eyes stopped spinning.

As she turned around, she noticed Batman had flung his cape aside, and was retrieving something from his belt. She had no idea what it was, but knew enough to realize that it was an extremely advanced, and therefore expensive, piece of technology. The pointed Batman symbol was set on top of it, a glint of silver against the black instrument.

"What is that?" she whispered harshly.

"How do bats see?" came the response. Then Batman slid the instrument open and placed it against the wall, then put his eye against it.

"I don't know. How do bats see?" Rosa asked, extremely annoyed.

Batman looked away from his instrument and to Rosa, who was now leaning against the rail.

"They see by measuring how long it takes their sound wave to reach an object and come back to them," he said, still holding the instrument in place. It let out a series of low pitched beeping, and the viewscreen became green with the picture of the room inside. Gesturing to the screen, Batman began, "Would you like to have the pleasure?"

Rosa sprung toward the wall and put her eye against the screen, enjoying the feeling of voyeurism that came with seeing through brick. It was fairly innocuous – a bathroom of to the back right, litter scattered about the floor, and a stuffed armchair sitting in the middle, open to Rosa through the viewfinder. Impressed despite herself, Rosa stood back, and Batman took over, noting the objects in the room.

As she retreated back against the fire escape's rail, Rosa's gaze fell to the left, where a couple was arguing loudly inside the apartment. To her horror, the door to the balcony slid open, and out stepped a blond-headed boy. Rosa judged him to be twelve or thirteen, and wished fervently that he wouldn't be too interested in the scenery.

Rosa darted forward and rapped Batman on the shoulder, hurting her knuckles and only succeeding in hearing a clicking sound. Right. He was wearing body gear… .

For a moment, Rosa forgot about the boy as her mind went reeling back in time. A man had just crashed through her window, disturbing her bath, and she had confronted him in her bathrobe. A mixture of embarrassment and irritation swept over her as she made the connection between the thief's body armor, and the stuff that Batman was now wearing. She tried to recall his features – dark hair, dark eyes, muscular… just the description of about half the men in Gotham.

… but one man in particular. She had seen those eyes before; many times in fact. A gasp escaped her throat as she matched the man standing before her, looking intently through the viewfinder of his expensive (expensive!) instrument. She pictured the same eyes taunting her, and looking angrily into her father's face, then into her own. Lastly, the eyes appeared to her, wearing an expensive suit with a pinky ring, leaning forward to shake Gordon's hand. She hissed with frustration, and Batman finally turned around.

They both noticed the that the boy's attention had turned toward them at the same time, probably having heard Rosa's gasp and hiss. Batman darted a lightning-fast look at her, communicating endless frustration at this kink in the process, and then he turned toward the boy.

"You're… you're the one they're all talking about," the voice broke a couple of times as the boy stated this. "They call you Batman!"

"What do they call you, then?" Rosa interrupted quickly.

The boy looked shocked, and then a sort of feeling of honor passed over his features, and he stood up straight. "Dick Grayson. My friends call me Robin, I'm really good at climbing and jumping off of stuff." Then he looked down, sullen, and said lowly to himself, "They'll never believe I saw you."

At this sad proclamation, Batman took his instrument off the wall and clicked it shut, then threw it to the boy, who caught it expertly.

"Dick? Get back in here!" an angry voice yelled from inside the house. Robin Grayson looked up at Batman longingly, then pocketed the black instrument and went inside, sliding the door carefully shut.

A moment of silence passed between the two on the fire escape, and then Batman spoke. "Listen. I'm going to go in through the window and…"

"I'm coming with you," Rosa said obstinately. Then, recalling her recent thoughts, she stepped forward aggressively toward the window and began to work at lifting it up.

"No, you're not. You came this far… I don't know if you're a thrill-seeker, or if you just have a deathwish. If so, we're quite high up. This is where the real work begins, and I don't want to be having to look after some policewoman who's in way over her head."

Calmly, she turned around. "I don't fancy working with a spoiled brat of a man who never grew out of his childhood, either, but we can't always choose our partners, can we?"

"… a spoiled brat…?"

"Well, you were. Even Alfred thought so."

Batman froze in place for a split second, and then deliberately relaxed his body position.

"And who might Alfred be?"

"Oh, you know. Tall, white hair, British accent. Alfred."

An unidentifiable sound came out of Batman as he turned away. His fist pounded the brick wall, and then he turned back around, his mouth open, his eyes questioning.

"Ray…?"

"I haven't known you quite as long as her, Mr. Wayne. But very close to it."

She could practically hear the cogs of Batman's brain turning – she could practically sense the change from his businesslike manner to one of confusion, surprise, and not a little anger.

"So are you going to have to kill me for this information, Bruce?" She stood, her arms folded, against the rail. "But then, it would look a little strange for the police to find someone dressed like me dead – might they think that the Batman worked alone, on pain of death? You wouldn't be a very cooperative figure then, no matter how many crime bosses you managed to tie down to skylights." Especially after Jim Gordon took of the mask, Rosa thought to herself.

"All right, so you know who I am," Batman uttered. "Don't you think you'd better reciprocate?"

"And therefore surrender my only protection? It's a hell of a lot easier to get rid of a civilian subtly than it is to get rid of a… well… whatever you call yourself. Superhero?"

"Assuming that there are people out there who know that said superhero exists…"

Ouch. Rosa quickly covered. "There are. I just prefer to work without the limelight. Jesus God, Bruce, even anonymous you want to get publicity."

There was no reply to that.

"Well then, hadn't we better get in there and grab some drugs from the big bad dealer?" She stepped forward, next to Batman, and began to tug at the window. It was rusted shut, so she retrieved the knife from her boot and worked it between the glass and the windowsill.

"You've been very helpful," Batman said slowly. "So I don't think there's a need to silence you… yet. But wait…" Rosa turned in time to see him smile. "If you told anyone, I'd know who 'the civilian' was. And as you said, that's your only protection." Now, he applied his strength to the window, and it slid up, halting as it met rust on the way up.

"I guess we're both stuck, then."

"I guess. Ladies first."

Rosa entered the apartment on cautious feet, watching the ground for some kind of booby trap, and treading lightly. There – on an armchair in the middle of the room, just as Batman's gadget had seen. Stuffed rabbits. She picked one up and tossed it behind her, feeling rather than hearing Batman catch it. Then she picked another one, rolling it around in her hands. The stitching at the head of the thing wasn't at all secure – in fact, the head was already half off. Obviously, this bunny was not meant for rough handling, as it wouldn't have survived anything past the trip from the docks to this remote apartment.

Gripping the head firmly in her hands, Rosa pulled it off and tossed it aside on the floor. Inside, a small plastic packet held a white powder. She didn't dare open it – even if it was only some sort of drug, like cocaine. What if this was some sort of biological weapon? What if it was anthrax? She turned around and faced Batman, but he had already dropped his specimen on the floor. She stilled at once, and they both heard the same thing : voices and footsteps approaching the room.

Quickly, Rosa stuffed the packet into her black bag of rose petals. There was no time to go back out the window; both she and Batman were too far in. She was barely conscious as Batman's cape whisked across her cheek as he ran to the bathroom, but she was conscious enough to notice his arm pointing to the corner of the room – a medium-sized trunk sat on the floor, obviously not large enough to fit a bulking man in full bat-costume, but which might be just big enough to fit a slender woman, whose costume had nothing that stuck out. She closed the lid on herself just as she heard the sounds of a key unlocking the door, and then they were in.

Rosa stifled a gasp of recognition – Dr. Jonathan Crane, head of the asylum where so many of her father's goons were stashed cozily away from prison, was head of the pyramid, two other men flanking him.

She expected them to immediately go to the armchair and start packing, which is what the workman did. But Dr. Crane stopped them after only a moment, holding his hand in the air. He brushed through the goons and looked at the topmost rabbit – the one with its head off; the one with the drugs gone. His gaze went from there to the missing head, and then to a full-bodied bunny nearer to the window.

"Collect them, then torch the place," he said softly. It was the same voice that he used in court, calm and collected and in control, a slightly monotonous tone. His gaze now darted around the apartment, falling on the open window. His eyes flashed, but no other part of him told of his thoughts – he knew they were still here. Quietly, he retreated into the background, to a suitcase sitting on the ground near the door.

But that was the end of the observation period. One of the goons, it seemed, had chosen this time to use the bathroom. Rosa almost laughed aloud – that would be an extremely pleasant experience, she thought. The other was slowly backing the remaining bunnies in a black garbage sack, and as he finished, a cry of pain and an enormous thump came from the bathroom.

Batman – One. Crane – Zero, Rosa thought, and then decided it was her turn to make a contribution. She narrowed her eyes at number two, who, of course, was showing no sign of concern for his friend, but instead had picked up a gun from the floor and was pointing it at the ceiling, his finger on the trigger.

She popped out of the trunk like some demented Jack-in-the-Box, and headed straight for him. He had time to get one shot in, and Rosa hoped he would be smart enough to aim for her heart or stomach. Sure enough, she felt the impact right next to her belly button, which made her stop mid step and give a shuddering gasp of pain, her hand flying to her gut. Obviously, he thought she was done with, so he returned to his task of packing, but not for long – a high-kick to the head took care of anymore thoughts that he might have had.

Where was Crane?! Rosa thought, her eyes scanning the room. Batman had come out of the bathroom, and was heading to the window, but she gestured to stay put. She could think of a couple of things she wanted to do to the bastard, and she wasn't about to run out now.

What she expected, though, was not what came to pass. Crane appeared, of course, but it wasn't… Crane. He wore some sort of mask made of what looked like a potato bag over his head, jagged eyes and a smiling mouth poorly cut out of the thing. And then there was a spraying sound…

It felt like her head was vibrating, the floor moving under her feet, and she stumbled around, finally getting a hold on the armchair. She looked behind her and screamed – Batman was no longer Batman – his eyes glowed red and his mouth was open, revealing long fangs, dripping with blood and saliva. His mask's ears grew and became deadly points. She saw him stumbling around, but perceived him to be heading her way, and she crumpled to the ground, shivering and whimpering.

Somewhere, a sinister voice came out of the darkness. "Well one I've heard about, but not two…" She was being forced up, her eyes screwed shut, and a hand was lifting her chin. "Open your eyes," the voice commanded harshly. Feebly, Rosa shook her head. "_Open them_!" She screamed softly, then did as the voice said.

She was looking into the hemp face of Crane… but it, too, had horribly changed. The eyes glowed like burning coals, and the mouth was dark and slimy, some viscous black fluid was dripping onto the floor, onto _her_!

Rosa scrabbled out of the monster's grip, frantically brushing her top free of the fluid, but it seemed to be stretching out, covering more ground. It was covering her! She was going to be smothered! Even more frantically, she began to brush off the liquid from her legs, arms, neck – she could feel it in her hair, she could feel it in her nose and mouth!

Then the room was suddenly lit up, and the bat-demon was in flames. As the black monster reached out for her again, she felt herself being swooped up (the liquid was between her toes and entering every crevice of her skin. She was going to suffocate!) and there was a long, long falling. The bat-demon rolled around on the ground, and the flames diminished, and then went out. Something shot up into the sky, and again she was grabbed, only this time to go up, soaring up, forever and ever…

With the last reservation of her sanity, Rosa heard someone say, from a very long way away, "Alfred! Alfred! _Alfred_!!"

And then all she knew was terror.


	9. a time for rest

Her dreams….

Oddly, she never dreamt about Dr. Crane and the spraying that had sent her mind into fear and hallucinatory nightmares. She could sense that her body was still feeling the effects of that mysterious spray; in her subconscious, she could understand that her physical self was rolling about, writhing on the surface she was lying on. It was just… after a certain point, hours upon hours of feeling herself suffocate, a slow process that was very much akin to what she thought Chinese water torture would be like.

At one point, a switch seemed to click off in her brain, and that was when the dreaming began. It was mainly memories she dreamt of, snatches of memories, and sometimes full memories.

_"Rosie, this isn't a good idea. Anybody could get a hold of it…" _

_"Then I'll just have to trust to your talents to get it somewhere where it's available to you and no one else, won't I?"_

_"Then you won't reconsider." _

_The look on Rosalie's face was enough for Rachel. She bent down and adjusted the camera so that Rosalie Falcone, recent run-away, was in the center. Rachel turned the focus know until Rosalie shone clear in the light. _

_"Well, here we go, then." _

_"What do I have to say?" _

_"Well, how about you begin with your name?" Rachel said, her finger on the "record" button of the video camera. _

_Rosalie breathed in and out a couple of times. "Okay. I'm ready." She waited until she saw the flashing red light of the recording button stabilize, and then looked straight into the camera. _

_"Hello. My name is Rosalie Falcone. My father is Carmine Falcone, who is the leader of the biggest group of organized criminals in the city of Gotham. I am here today to testify against him. I am under no pressure; I do this of my own volition. I am being witnessed by Rachel Dawes, who is currently a student at the Law School."_

_I fully understand any implications that this tape may cause, and I swear," Rosalie stood up and, with Rachel following her, walked toward the camera until all the viewfinder showed was her blue eyes, framed by dark lashes and brows. "… I hereby swear that I am telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God."_

_"So help you God," Rachel whispered to herself as Rosalie began to pace the small room, outlining the exploits of her father. As far as Rachel could tell, they could get him on at least one charge – Manslaughter. The murder of Sebastian Salvatore was clearly the fault of Carmine Falcone. Rachel shivered, and Rosalie's voice began to break as she went on, for three hours, talking about every minute detail she could recall about every single one of Carmine Falcone's dealings with drugs, prostitutes, bribery, and, of course, murder._

After the fear and the memories came a time where Rosa lost track of herself. She felt like she was floating on water. She moved her fingers and smiled, watching the ripples make their way further and further away. So amazing that one small motion could effect something so far away…

oooooo

When Rosa Ducard finally opened her eyes, there was a man-shaped figure sitting in a chair perpendicular to her bed, and another man-figure standing up, holding a tray with precision. Things were a bit fuzzy, but she noticed light shining into the scene, and for a moment she was blinded by it. She did not move her body, only her eyes. It seemed as if the two men hadn't realized that she was yet awake, so she took the opportunity to try and figure out something about her surroundings. She lay on soft material, and soft yet heavy things lay on top of her. She was dressed in some sort of tank top – but she doubted it was cheap; it felt like silk on her skin. Her legs, also – was she wearing some kind of boxer short? At any rate, she realized, she was not dressed as she had been when… when… but when, Rosa couldn't recall. The room smelled fresh and clean, and the light shone through her eyelids. She was about to open them again when someone spoke.

"Alfred," a familiar voice said, "I've been awake for at least thirty-six hours. Shouldn't something be happening? Look – I'll go call Lucius again."

"Master Bruce," an older voice said, "I wouldn't be so hasty. Your body mass, as Mr. Fox explained, is probably twice hers, yet you both retained the same dose of the hallucinogen. She might take twice as long to recover, but I think it will be soon – she's come out of the disturbed phase, in fact, she came out of it much more quickly than you did. Probably for the same reason – body mass. You had the same dose of the vaccination; it probably worked more quickly for her."

"Alfred, English?"

"You're twice her size. You both breathed the same amount. Which body do you think was able to handle the toxin?"

"Oh."

It came back to Rosa in a rush. Batman… flying… _Bruce Wayne!!_... and the smothering, the black fluid, the horrible feeling of helplessness, of knowing that you couldn't do anything to prevent your own death…

But she wasn't dead. And apparently, neither was Bruce. And…. _Dr. Crane!!_ Well, here's some solid evidence for Rachel, she thought. She smiled, then quickly rearranged her face to its passive expression.

Not quickly enough, though.

"R-Rosa?" Bruce spoke.

"Miss Ducard?" Alfred said simultaneously.

She reluctantly opened her eyes, and stared up at the pair of them. Bruce had risen to his feet and was staring down at her face.

"Yes, and yes," Rosa said, her throat hoarse and sore. Her heart sank. She wasn't wearing a mask. Her one link of protection had just been broken. "I suppose, Mr Wayne, that _now_ you'll have to kill me?"

oooooo

The chair that Bruce had been sitting in now had a companion – a large stuffed armchair, which Rosa sank into after being helped up by Alfred and, embarrassingly, by Bruce. It was much different to feel those arms around her waist without their gauntlets, while knowing that this person who was holding her was Bruce Wayne, and not Batman. She wasn't sure which personality she was more comfortable with.

"You're very brave," Alfred said. "Stalking Master Bruce like that."

"I wouldn't say it was stalking, Mr. Penny…"

"Alfred. Everyone calls me Alfred, Miss Ducard, and I expect you to make no exception."

"Well, then it's Rosa, and not 'Miss Ducard,' all right?"

"It seems as if we have a deal." He handed her a khaki green drink that looked absolutely disgusting. Rosa looked at the drink, then at Alfred, who was still standing straight beside her, holding the silver tray as if he was waiting for the empty cup. Which he probably was, Rosa thought. Talk about killing with kindness. She looked at the concoction again and then downed it. It tasted just like it looked. Making a face, Rosa put the glass back on the tray, coughing out a "thank you."

Alfred left the room just as Bruce was coming in.

And it just keeps getting better and better… Rosa thought. She tried to refrain from wincing as he took the straight-backed chair next to her.

"You were out for four and a half days," he said in a quiet voice. "But I guess the plus side is that you're now immune to that toxin. Alfred didn't know what to do after the second day, so he called in a sort of… specialist. He made the vaccinations."

Rosa remained silent, forcing Bruce to speak again.

"I… I don't understand why this is important to you."

"Why is it important to _you_, Bruce Wayne? Why the hell should it be important to someone who has everything?" She gestured weakly around the room. "And do you have to be such a dickhead when you're not…?" She didn't want to say the word Batman aloud to _him_.

"I suppose that's a fair question. But I'd rather you answer first."

"You don't always get what you'd 'rather' have." She snapped.

Making a fist, Bruce pounded it softly on the arm of the her chair, making a 'flump' noise. "I. Know. That. I would like it if you… would… _please_… tell me why…" and the unflappable Bruce Wayne ran out of words.

Rosa reached over with her arm, and with her policewoman's grip, grabbed him by the chin and forced him to face her. She looked into it. So different, yet so similar to Batman – a figure she admired and respected, someone who had taken it upon himself to singularly change the world, without a thought to the consequences.

There is a man in that suit, always, Rosa thought. And that man has been and always will be Bruce Wayne.

With that epiphany, a light layer of calm settled over Rosa, and she brought her hand down from Bruce's chin, who immediately brought up his own hand to rub it.

"Strong grip," he muttered.

"Policewoman. No, superhero." She smiled faintly. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr Wayne, that it wasn't Rachel behind the mask of _La Rosa Rossa…_"

"Say that again."

"I'm sorry that it wasn't Rachel…?"

"No. What you said in Italian."

"_La Rosa Rossa?_" Rosa repeated. "_La Rosa Rossa,"_ she said again, elongating the beautiful sounds of the Italian language.

"The red rose…" Bruce had his hand on his forehead. "'So that the Falcones should know that this is my job…'" he said, repeating Rosa from the night at the docks. "Red roses – the Falcones always leave red roses somewhere on their victims."

Oh dear, thought Rosa. She put her weight on the edge of her seat, ready to bolt if she had to. She planned an escape route : roll over the bed, run to the door, lock Bruce in? Yeah, right. Because that was really going to work with the shape she was in right now.

"I've… seen you somewhere before." Bruce said slowly.

Here it comes… Rosa thought, and then decided, If he's going to know, it's going to be on my terms, not his."

"My name is Rosalie Falcone, Mr. Wayne, and I am the only child of Carmine Falcone." She set her chin and held her head high. "It would be a good idea to call Sgt. Jim Gordon at his office to let him know that I'm here. Don't worry," she added, catching Bruce's expression, "he knows. Him and… Rachel."

"And I thought there wouldn't be any more surprises for a long time," Bruce said, running a hand through his hair. "Rachel?"

"Yeah. We're really good friends. Don't you remember?"

"Oh… shit."

Rosa actually laughed. It wasn't much of one, but it was a definite signal that she found Bruce's distress funny. "And I thought I would never talk to you again," she said, giggling.

"And I thought you were taken care of. Well, I suppose any spoiled brat is allowed his dreams."

"Mr Wayne…"

"Bruce."

"I'm sorry, but I don't really think I can…"

"It's Bruce. I think you and I have been through enough together to be on a first name basis, correct, _Rosa_?" He stumbled a bit over the Italian pronunciation. "What does that part mean?"

"Rose."

"And Rosalie meant…?"

She was surprised that he had caught on to the change in identity. Surprised, and very pleased.

"It meant 'melody.'"

"A melodious rose." He titled his head. "… nope. Don't see it. Le Toreador would've been much better."

"So would've Dark Fairy Princess, but since when do you listen to what I say?"

"Since four and a half days ago, _La Rosa._ Since now."

Rosa blushed a bit.

"Do you know that Carmine Falcone is on trial, even as we speak?"

That made her jump in her seat. "What did they manage to get him for?" Then she remembered. "Ah… drug charges." She smiled.

"Yeah, guess being Batman has some fringe benefits."

"Fringe benefits?"

"You get to take out the bad guys for the damsels in distr… er… fully capable women who definitely know how to kick their own ass."

"But… Rachel. She knows where it is."

"Excuse me?

"The tape, the deposition. I made it right after I ran away. It would lock him away for good. And now that we've got evidence on Crane, he can easily be put away…"

"Whoa. Stop. I don't know if you remember, but less than a week ago you were about this close to dying." He held his fingers less than an inch apart. "Drop the policewoman bit for a while, okay? You'll never recover if you don't."

"As long as you drop Batman, _Bruce_."

There was a silence, a great grimacing of face, and a giant sigh.

"Fine. No Batman, no great rescuer Amazonian woman. Deal?"

"Deal." They shook hands, and Rosa sat back in her chair, exhausted.

"I wonder, can you tell me what that vile green drink was?" she said, before exhaustion began to take over again.

"You don't want to know," she faintly heard as she felt herself be picked back up and laid in the soft bed.

Her dreams were much more pleasant.


	10. lying

She sat on the chair in the lounge just off to the left of the foyer, grasping her hands together. Her clothes were neat, clean, and expensive. New, of course. Or at least she hoped. Who knew, when it came to Bruce Wayne. Immediately, she berated herself. No, that was not the way she viewed the "playboy" at the moment, now that she knew what all those late nights were spent doing and what a good part of his fortune was going to.

She looked down briefly at herself, feeling not a little ridiculous. She was wearing clothing fit for some kind of wealthy woman in the twenties – wide legged pants, a sleeveless shirt that crossed demurely over her collarbone in a "v," all in pastel shades. She felt like an invalid – well, she _was_ an invalid.

Rosa Ducard was not used to this kind of treatment – like she was worth… she didn't know… her weight in gold? Like she was an egg, easily cracked. Well, she wasn't. If there was one thing Rosa knew about herself, it was that her "egg-ness" was hard-boiled. Uncrackable.

Today was the first day she had been able to move on her own, but she almost decided to stay in bed when Alfred laid out the clothing. "Who do you think I am, some kind of princess?" Rosa had said, propped up on pillows, watching with a disturbed face as he folded each item of clothing carefully and placed it on her armchair.

Alfred ignored her, of course. "Will you need assistance getting dressed, Ms. Rosa?"

"No I will _not_, Alfred, thank you _very_ much!!" She felt even more ridiculous after the offer. She knew she hadn't transmogrified from her _Rosa_ suit to the comfortable pajamas. She wasn't stupid or naïve.

"Very well. Sgt. James Gordon will be paying a call on you this afternoon, would you like to receive him in here?"

"And have Jim see me all dolled up and tucked into bed? Hell no! It isn't like I live here, Alfred. I'm just…" she lay back against the pillows, "… here for an unexplainable reason, and not able to leave for that same unexplainable reason. Just. Dandy. What am I supposed to tell Gordon, for Christ's sake?"

Alfred coughed mildly.

"Oh, right, like 'Master Bruce' never cusses. If you want to hear more, I'll gladly oblige you." She opened her mouth to voice a choice favorite of hers, but Bruce entered the room.

"Are you feeling better today?" he asked quietly.

"I was, before I learned that one : I apparently can't cuss here, and two : I'm supposed to wear _that_." Rosa pointed with derision at the outfit on the chair. "I bet it doesn't even fit."

"Actually," Alfred began, "I took part of your – ahem – suit, to a local tailor. They were quite happy to tell me that you are a size twelve, shirt size medium."

"Did they tell you that I'm not really comfortable with two men that I hardly know knowing my personal clothing sizes? Because that would've been _really_ helpful information."

Alfred turned to leave the room, and whispered to Bruce, "Sarcasm. A true sign she's feeling better," and Bruce suppressed a laugh.

"So," he said. "D'you need help to get those on?"

"_No I do not_!!"

"Erm, good. So I'll just… leave you to it then."

"Yes. That'd be nice."

With one last glance at the red-faced figure on the bed, Bruce Wayne smiled as he turned and exited the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

oooooo

Sergeant Jim Gordon pulled up into the circular gravel parking zone in front of Wayne Manor. His face was set determinedly as he shut off his car and put the keys in the front pocket of some worn-out jeans.

Gordon was off-duty, and Gordon out of work wear was quite a different site from Gordon in work wear. He wore a white t-shirt, and over it, some plaid button-up in forgettable colors. An old baseball cap graced his head, its bill practically bent double.

He got out of his years-old car, slamming the door shut, and looked up at the huge mansion with a measure of awe and a measure of confusion.

What the hell was Rosa doing here, of all places? How did she get here? If someone had hurt her… well, let's say they wouldn't be doing it for much longer. Rosa knew that Gordon felt like she was some kind of surrogate daughter, and Gordon knew his limits. Once they – the innumerable "they" whom he could fight against and track down and even, once in a while, imprison – got to family, Gordon was not responsible for his actions.

He breathed out heavily through his nose and set to going up the steps to the giant front door of the manor.

He was here to get some answers, and no playboy "Mr. Wayne" was going to fob him off with anything – money, lies, what have you. Nope, Jim thought. Wayne, you're on your own.

oooooo

Rosa looked out the front windows just in time to see an irate Jim Gordon making his way up them.

She rose from her chair immediately, throwing aside the "lap rug," ("I'm sorry, I'd just rather have the whole frickin' rug instead of one cut in half.") Over at the window, she could just see Gordon raising his hand to knock on the door. She was ready to confess all – the weird chemical, the flying, the…

But then she realized.

She wouldn't tell Gordon about Bruce Wayne's secret, because of just that. It was _Bruce Wayne's_ secret, not hers. If Bruce wanted to go around informing half the city of his Bat-like tendencies, then I'm sure he would have. But he hasn't. So neither will I.

But then… What was she supposed to tell Gordon? The whole "chasing after bunny rabbits with drugs" story was out. She tried to think of it from Gordon's perspective. She was here, at Bruce Wayne the playboy's house. She had been here for six days. More importantly, she had been here for six _nights_. And Gordon would know all that.

Well, Rosa, she thought. You're such a great talker, get ready to talk yourself out of this one.

Yeah, as if that's going to work.

oooooo

Alfred opened the front door as soon as Jim Gordon's finger was off the button.

"Good afternoon. You are Sergeant James Gordon, I presume?"

"Yeah," Jim started, preoccupied. "Where's Rosa?" But what he really wanted to shout was, "_Where the hell's Rosa, and what the hell has your boss been doing?!_" But Gordon held himself back.

Before Alfred could answer, a figure came sliding out into the main hall. "Alfred, this slipper things are sweet." Then Rosa looked up, and broke into a huge smile. "Gordon! You came to rescue me, how good of you. Look at this get-up! And to think of all the persuasion it took to get me in that dress. I guess I can't talk back so much when I don't enough energy to talk back, hey?" But the exhaustion was starting to take over again. She could feel it pulling down on her muscles. Gordon seemed to notice, so he jogged up the steps and put an arm under Rosa's shoulders.

"Thanks, Gordon. Always be prepared, right? Here, come with me into Le Lounge of Chez Wayne, and let me tell you all about this thingymajigger."

Thingymajigger? Alfred thought as he watched Jim Gordon half walk, half carry the Rosa back to… how did she call it? 'Le Lounge?' Well, Alfred had to admit, she's very good. Very good.

oooooo

"… So you're trying to tell me that you're alive because of Bruce Wayne."

Obviously, Gordon wasn't too keen on believing the story.

"Gordon. I'll repeat it again if I have to : Batman was gone by the time I got there. Guess you don't get caught in traffic as much if you fly everywhere. I arrived just in time for the ceremonial dumping of the lovely mixture of leftover medicine from the Asylum. That stuff's sort of slippery, as you may know – I tripped, I fell. 'I've fallen and I can't get up,' Jim. It was some serious sh-" Rosa looked to her left and spotted Alfred, "-ort. Short time to get out of there, and I just wasn't fast enough. Hey, could you help me with this pillow?"

Gordon picked up the appointed object and put in behind Rosa's back.

"Thanks." Her voice got quiet. "They just kept dumping the stuff on me, I don't think they even saw me. Jim, I thought I was going to suffocate. I thought I was _suffocating_."

Even Gordon couldn't deny that she was serious about this part. He hugged her for a moment, smoothing down her hair and whispering comfits into her ear until Rosa calmed down again.

Rosa sniffed loudly and ran her arm under her nose.

"Always such a lady," Gordon said softly.

"But," Rosa started back up, "I guess that Bruce saw me from a different angle, or something. I remember his headlights were on, so that probably helped. And he just sort of… pulled me out. I don't remember a lot after, I guess I must have swallowed some of that muck. The next thing I knew four and a half days had passed and I was waking up in a bed with Egyptian Cotton sheets."

"Then I brought in the doctor," Bruce said, "and he gave her some sort of ultra-antibiotic, I'm not going to even try to pronounce it. He – the doctor – said she'd be okay after a while. I didn't know where she lived, or who she was, so she just stayed in one of the guest-bedrooms."

"I'm so sorry, Gordon," Rosa said. "I knew you'd be worried." She leant in to hug him again, and whispered, "You owe me two new guns and a knife. Plus a mask." She kissed him gently on the temple. "I'll feel better soon; I'm feeling better already," she said as she pulled away. "Is it okay… if I stay here till I'm up to snuff? I swear, whatever's in the air up here, besides it being smogless, is doing wonders for me."

"Kid, you're twenty-six. You can stay wherever you want."

"Thanks, Gordon. Love you too."

oooooo

"I hate lying to him," Rosa said. She was back in her room, back in her bed, lying down and looking at the ceiling. "He doesn't deserve it."

"No, I don't think he does," Bruce Wayne was sitting in the armchair, a book lying open in his palm. "But… thank you. For not telling."

"Gotta find some way to build up that link of protection, B-Man. Now, keep reading. And remember to do different voices for all the parts."

Bruce shook his head, looking down at the book. It was probably worth thousands of dollars – a Tennessee Williams collection of plays, first edition, autographed. But the cost didn't really matter right now. All that mattered was that this incredibly rare book had been taken out of its place, had had the dust blown off of it, and was now being read aloud from.

"Come closer, I can't hear you."

"That's probably because I haven't started yet," Bruce muttered, but clambered over to the other side of the bed, and propped the pillows up. He lay back, one arm behind his head, one keeping the book open. "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," he began. "Tennessee Williams. The Players…"

Big Daddy had just returned for his birthday party when Bruce heard a slight noise next to him. Is there a coffee-maker in here? He thought wildly, but looked down at Rosa. She was deeply asleep, snoring softly. She had also managed to meld herself against Bruce.

"Well this is fun," Bruce said. He lay the book open to the page he was on and turned it upside down, cracking the spine as he put it on his chest.

He carefully reached over to the lamp on his side of the bed, and pulled the chain. The light went out, and Bruce closed his eyes. The hand behind his head moved from its position to outlining Rosa's back.

He couldn't know it, but his lips were tucked up at the corners. Bruce Wayne was smiling.

The book's worth was now ruined.

But the worth of Bruce Wayne was slowly being rebuilt.


	11. grin

Jack Napier was a kid who never fit in, and his mother, Marie Napier, was fed up with his antics.

"Why do you come home so dirty, Jack? Where have you been?" As much as she would've liked tot think it, Jack wouldn't have been with friends. Jack didn't have any friends, except, perhaps, for his sister, Carol.

Carol was an angel, in Jack's mind – someone he wanted to be like. But it seemed to Jack that that sort of perfection was out of his reach. Nonetheless, Carol was always there for Jack – encouraging him whenever he managed to pick up a hobby and stick with it for a while, always amazed at his grades in school, even if they were all C's. Carol, Jack decided, treated Jack with respect.

She even thought he was handsome.

"Just smile, Jack. You have the most beautiful smile. All you've got to do is let those shiners loose and you'll have all the ladies falling at your feet." Jack would smile tentatively in her presence, then broadly, a grin that went widely from ear to ear, showing off all of his post-braces, perfectly realigned teeth.

Carol was really much older than Jack – by fifteen years – but unlike a usual sibling who blamed their parents for hanging the weight of a much younger brother around their necks, Carol was delighted with her little brother.

It was hard to tell, however, with Marie, which child she disliked the most. Jack could understand why Marie was never very friendly with him – after all, he wasn't very good at anything, always preferring to be on his own, always spending time in his room. What Jack couldn't understand was why Marie was so… _angry_… all the time at the angelic Carol, who never did anything wrong except, perhaps, choosing all the wrong boyfriends.

There was one boyfriend that seemed to matter to Carol the most – he even gave a gift to Jack, through Carol. It was a small Swiss-Army knife, and Jack would unlatch it with amazement each time, wondering how so many things could be in something so tiny.

It was the first of Jack's knife collection.

As Jack entered surly teenagerdom, Carol was in her twenties, but still lived at home. She went through relationships like fish went through water – each one ending in a rush of emotion and sending Carol back home, usually into the comforting arms of her little brother.

At one point, though, she met this boy who seemed too good to be true. He had money of his own, a place of his own, and he seemed to genuinely like Carol. To her, this was her knight in shining armor, completely ready to take Carol away on his silver Harley.

Jack never thought it would happen. After all, it had never petered out before. But this time...

Carol packed her things quickly and moved out of the little house that her brother and mother occupied, swung on to the back of the Harley, and wrapped her arms tight around her newest love. Soon she was nothing but a cloud of dust – leaving no note of where she was going behind. No name of the new boyfriend. Nothing that could ever connect her back to this place where she had grown up.

Jack tried to understand. After all, people did have a tendency to grow up, and a tendency to move away from the home nest.

But the day after Carol's departure, Marie was serving breakfast at the round kitchen table, and she sat across from her son.

"Jack, I've got something to tell you."

"Yea, Ma?" Jack said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"Jack, look at me." Setting down his fork and swallowing the last of his bite, Jack stared into his mother's face. She had an old face, lined before her time.

"Jack," Marie began, before pausing and taking a deep breath in. "I'm not really your mother. I'm your grandmother."

Jack sat perfectly still, looking down at his plate. He suddenly wasn't hungry anymore. When he looked back up at his moth – at his grandmother, he suddenly knew what she was going to say.

"Carol… she got into trouble."

Yes, Jack knew what that particular euphemism meant. "Let me guess," he said in an iron-clad voice. "She was fourteen."

"Yes…" Marie reached her hand out across the table, and Jack had the sudden urge to stab it with his butter knife. "Jack, Carol was… is… your..."

"I don't want to hear it!" Jack shoved back his chair as he stood up. "It's not true! My mother wouldn't abandon me! My mother wouldn't… wouldn't…" He grew quiet again, his face suddenly a mask of blandness.

"Honey…" Jack didn't respond. "I thought you should know. I still want you to live here, I still love you."

Jack quietly left the table, dropping by his room to pick up his pocket knife. Who did this really belong to? He asked himself. My father? Or the one after him? Or maybe even the one before him? With this thoughts raging in his mind, Jack stalked out of the house, leaving a trail of almighty anger behind him.

The week after, the neighbors started to notice that their pets were going missing.

oooooo

Rosa woke up suddenly, feeling oddly… comfortable. As in, extremely comfortable. Sleeping on a cloud, floating on water, feather-bed goose-down pillows. She was pressed up against a gigantic body pillow.

Which was… breathing.

Rosa's eyes flew open, only to have their gaze meet the flat plain of a navy blue jersey t-shirt. She glanced down – blue and green plaid pajama bottoms. Up – a flesh colored landscape. She pressed tentatively down on the tips of her fingers, and the not-body-pillow slightly indented at the pressure, as a sound came out above her head.

"Oof."

It clicked. Rosa rolled back and sat up in less than a second, then executed a jump from her cross legged position to the first pose of some martial arts attack. However, the surface wasn't firm, and the speed of the movement caused Rosa to wobble for a couple of moments before she fell forward.

Right onto Bruce Wayne. Who, it seemed, had designated himself to be Rosa's personal snuggle buddy.

There were two louder "oof"s – one high-pitched and one low. Now Rosa was looked at the floor, her legs were flailing in the air as her weight shifted forward. Her torso was pressed against her bedmate's stomach, and she stayed there precariously. She knew she would fall. It was much like the feeling she got when she spilled a glass of something – she realized it was happening, but there wasn't enough time for her to react.

Putting her arms out in front of her, hoping to catch herself in a handstand, Rosa felt one strong arm land on the back of her thighs, grounding her feet back on the bed. The other arm went under Rosa, settled on her stomach, and flipped her backwards.

"That was fun," Bruce Wayne said, smirking, his hand still laying on Rosa's stomach.

"That," Rosa said, "is not the question at hand."

"I didn't know there was a question at…"

"_What are you doing in my friggin' bed, Bruce_?!"

"It's my birthday today," he said, still smiling.

"Answer the question!"

"You were the one who asked me to move closer!!"

"And you really think I meant _this close_?!"

"Excuse me, Sleeping Beauty, but I was not the one who decided to close the gap."

Rosa went bright red. "Yes, well. Um. I tend to move around in my sleep," she said in a tone that suggested this was Bruce's fault.

Bruce just raised his eyebrows.

"I… you…" Rosa was fumbling for words. "… not fair." She finished off. Seeming to change tactics, she brought up a hand to her hair, and then buried her face in her below. "Mmph."

"Sorry, didn't catch that?"

Rosa briefly raised her head. "It's seven a.m. I know what I look like at seven in the morning. Now, I know what _you_ look like at seven in the morning. It's easy when you've got short hair and absolutely no grooming responsibilities whatsoever. Would you mind exiting the room so I can trek to the bathroom and try to repair this damage?" Sitting back up, she tugged at one of Bruce's arms, trying to get him to do the same. Damn, she thought. Guess the whole "lifting" thing isn't going to work.

"So what about this?"

"This? Are you talking about the fact that you _slept in my bed_ last night?"

"That's one way to put it, yeah…"

"Than 'this' was extremely weird and hopefully will not happen again, unless both parties are wide awake and agreeable."

"Right," Bruce paused. "Well, that counts me out." He swung his legs over the bed, giving a parting smirk and wave to the open-mouthed Rosa on the bed.

As soon as her door was shut, Rosa "flumped" back down on the pillows, thinking mutinously of… of… yeah, who knew what? Just something that would make Bruce Wayne feel as embarrassed and out of place as she did right now.

She grumbled a couple of times, then turned over to face the windows, and fell back asleep.

Back in his room, Bruce did the same.

oooooo

"Master Bruce, it's three o'clock."

"Thank you, Alfred, I'm well aware of the time." After a few more hours of sleep, Bruce had woken up, only to realize that it was still his birthday, and he had less time than he rather wanted to prepare.

Now, Bruce sat up, tying his bathrobe around his waist and pulling on some slippers.

"Your party…"

"… starts in a few hours. This, I also know. I'm inviting Miss Ducard, Alfred, can you see that she gets something appropriate to wear? Something that she'll actually… you know… put on?"

"I thought this might be the case."

Bruce turned on his stool after brushing his wet hair back with a comb.

"So I have a dress made. I dropped off orders for it when I took the suit to be cleaned." Standing up and crossing over to Bruce's wardrobe, Alfred pulled out a long dress bag.

"Am I allowed to see it?"

Eyes still dancing, Alfred unzipped the bag. "I hope you approve?"

"Alfred, I knew you're still here for a reason. That's perfect."

"Then I'll deliver it to Rosa's room, shall I?"

"Marvelous."

It was only a few minutes later that Bruce heard the screeching denials that "… I'm ever going to fit in a dress like that." And "… Alfred, what were you thinking? This is almost worse than those wide pants!" Finally, "… well, I don't want it to go to waste."

Haha… Bruce thought. Point to Alfred.

There were footsteps stomping down the hall, and suddenly Bruce's door slammed open. "You really think I'm going to wear this, then?"

"Rosa, I could've been naked."

Turning an interesting shade of green, Rosa exited, closing the door behind her. There came a knocking noise. "Bruce Wayne, please tell me if you're naked because if you're not I'm coming in there to yell at you and don't try to trick me because I know you're not."

She re-opened the door, holding up a floor-length black dress in her arms. There was a sweetheart neck, a back made of wide straps of black material, and sleeves that would cover her shoulders and the tops of her arms.

Bruce looked at the dress, then at Rosa. "Yes, I really think you're going to wear that."

There was a silence.

"… but what will I do with my _hair_?!"

"Whatever the hell you want, I don't really think people will be looking at your hair, Rosa," Bruce smirked.

"Well that's just… not appealing." An idea formed in her head of Ashley's hair, on a night she was going to the Gotham Opera. It had been swept across her forehead and brought bag in an elegant chignon. Rosa had repeated the hairstyle on Abby, so she had some sort of idea of how it was made… she sighed heavily. "Fine. You win. The dress, the hair… only one thing."

"Anything, if we're already past those two obstacles…"

"I'm wearing my holster."

"That would make an interesting scene as you would have to hike your skirt up to your hips to retrieve a gun…. Wait. I've probably got an ankle one around here somewhere. I'll let you borrow it."

"Why, Bruce, my very own ankle holster? I feel so loved!"

Bruce felt like he was giving candy and flowers to Rosa instead of a chunky holster as he handed it over. Perhaps he was, he thought. Perhaps he was.

Rosa swept back out of the room, and Bruce retrieved a tux from his wardrobe.

That was when the doorbell rang.


	12. the asylum

Rosa heard the doorbell ring as she finished dressing in her room. She was looking into the mirror, trying to get the straps of the dress to cover more of her shoulder when it rang a second time. Isn't anyone going to answer that? She thought as she reached down to adjust her ankle holster. Apparently not.

As quickly as she could in the heels she was wearing, Rosa made her way down the main hall, weaving in and out of the long white party tables, already beginning to fill up with champagne flutes and fancy finger food, Alfred supervising all. He turned as the bell rang for the third time, his face red with exertion. "Don't they know to come through the service entrance; there's a sign on that door specifically asking them to come through the service entrance," he muttered to himself as he straightened his jacket and headed toward the foyer. Rosa followed closely behind him.

The darkening sky made the silhouette of Rachel Dawes look frail, but she stepped into the mansion at Alfred's invitation with confidence, carrying a small wrapped box in one hand, and struggling with her over-sized purse with the other. Rachel dug out her cell phone before she looked up, and her eyes widened at the sight of Rosa.

"Why are you wearing a dress?" was the first thing out of Rachel's mouth. Then, smiling crookedly, she passed the hand with the cell phone over her forehead before continuing. "Sorry. Instant reaction."

"Rachel," Alfred said warmly, inviting her further into the foyer. The door remained open behind her.

"I can't stay," she began, her eyes again straying over to Rosa. "I'm sorry, Alfred, but I've got some work to do that I can't put off." She handed the small package over to Alfred. "So if you could give this to Bruce for me?"

"Of course… are you sure you won't be…?"

"Rachel!" Another voice interrupted. Rachel raised her hand in salutation, and Bruce Wayne joined the group at the front of the house.

"Heavy night, Bruce?" Rachel said with the same crooked smile.

Don't blush, Rosa ordered herself furiously. Don't you dare blush. Don't you dare even think about blu… Sweet. Rosa's face felt hot and she felt a sudden urge to run up to one of the long white tables and down a flute of champagne.

Thankfully, Alfred interrupted. "Rachel just came to drop her present by, Master Bruce," he said quietly, edging back toward the caterers, and slipping the package into Bruce's hand.

"It looks like it's going to be a lot of fun," Rachel prompted, "but I won't be here to see it."

"Do you have some better plans?" Bruce said, his tone half-annoyed.

Rachel's face turned sour. "D.A. Finch hasn't shown up for work for over a week, Bruce. Which means that by now I should be either checking hospital morgues or dragging the river…" she trailed off. Rosa moved forward unconsciously and awkwardly patted her on the arm a few times. "I'm sorry," she said softly, and Rachel knew that she meant it.

"It's all right…" Rachel was interrupted by the sharp ring of her cell phone, which seemed to visibly vibrate her hand at its volume. Lightning-fast, she flipped it open and brought it to her ear. "Rachel Dawes… what do you mean? Who gave Crane jurisdiction to do that?... No. No, it's not all right. Get Dr. Lehman… I don't care if he's in a coma, just get him over to the Asylum... all right…. Yes, I'm going over there too. If Dr. Crane thinks he can keep Carmine Falcone in a cushy cage when he's just ready to be indicted, he is sorely mistaken."

At this, Rosa took in a breath of air very quickly, and felt a subtle hand pressing hers. Rosa's eyes darted over to Bruce. His face was perfectly composed, but one of his arms was at an odd angle to his body, and Rosa pressed slightly back. The hand let go, and Bruce Wayne put both his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe.

"… thank you, I'll be right over." Rachel snapped her phone shut. "Bruce, I really have to go. Have fun at your party," she said a little bitterly, and turned to start to make her way out.

"Wait!" Rosa said abruptly. "I'm coming with you."

oooooo

They rode up the elevator together; a slightly incongruous couple : Rosa in her white-tie attire and Rachel in a worn pair of jeans and casual purple shirt.

Rosa held a fold of her dress in each hand, gripping her hands in fists so tight that her fingernails made indentations on her palms, even through the thick and smooth fabric. She knew she looked tense; she breathed deeply a few times in an effort to make her shoulders leave their "at attention" positions. Her teeth were clenched together, so much so that her jaw was starting to hurt.

She knew that as soon as the elevator opened, she would be faced with a sight she had hoped she would never have to see again – that of her father, Carmine Falcone. Rosa wasn't exactly sure why she had insisted on coming with Rachel to see him. Maybe it was because she wasn't even sure he still existed. She had spent seven years of her life convincing herself that the first twenty years of her life hadn't happened, and maybe she had succeeded in some part. She had never contacted her mother… that was the only thing she regretted. She didn't even know whether Giulietta was alive or dead. She had had a detached sort of feeling toward Carmine through the past years, that as a policewoman trying to catch a criminal.

Rachel, who had put her cell phone away for the second time, mumbling momentarily about the impossibility of making calls in this building, finally looked over toward her friend. It was only because they had known each other for so long that Rachel recognized the tense posture – anyone else would have thought that Rosa was just concentrating hard on something. Which in its way, was true. She was concentrating on not showing any weakness.

"Rosa, I just want to say that, well… you don't have to do this if you don't want to."

Through her gritted teeth, Rosa replied, "That's not true, Rachel, and you know it. You're right. He doesn't deserve to sit in a cushy cell after all the things he's done. Do you think that the tape might help?"

It was a signal of Rosa's frightened desperation that she mentioned the videotape, so Rachel watched her carefully before she answered slowly, "No… well, I don't think so. Not if Dr. Crane is really able to prove that he's insane. It would be obsolete."

"I used to think that my dad didn't need anyone's help to prove he was insane, Rachel. But suicidal? He's got way too much pride for that." Rosa's voice was flat with hatred.

"… and that's why Dr. Lehman's coming. I want to get my own medical examiner in here. We both know, well… we both know that I don't hold Dr. Crane in the highest regard. Something goes on here that's too coincidental, too convenient."

"We can both agree on that." Rosa thought back to the night that Crane had poisoned her. An appropriate weapon for enemies that needed immediate immobilization, she thought with a hint of worry. These poor patients, she thought momentarily, to be in the hands of such a madman.

And that worried her even more.

oooooo

As soon as the door closed, leaving just Bruce, Alfred, and the huge team of caterers in the main hall, Bruce turned and started to walk briskly toward the music room. Sensing his direction, Alfred excused himself from the caterers and followed closely behind.

"Master Bruce, you can't possibly go right now. The guests are due to arrive any minute, and, I know it's crazy, but they're expecting Bruce Wayne to be at his own birthday party."

"It won't take long, Alfred," Bruce said carelessly, turning around to address his oldest friend. "Besides, I'm sure you can keep them entertained… tell them that joke you know." Bruce smirked and Alfred stopped in the hallway, his mouth open with incredulity.

Bruce continued on his way to the music room, to the piano. The three double sets of notes that opened the wall to the Batcave was soon enacted, and he was hurtling down at least four stories to darkness, ready to transform.

As he quickly put on the Batsuit, Bruce wondered. What am I going for? Rachel's cause or Crane's insanity? He suddenly thought of Rosa, her face tightened with rage and frustration, morphing suddenly into an expression of utter terror, and he frowned. If Crane hurt either of them…

Batman shoved his gauntlet onto his hand and flung a Batarang at the wall in his own anger. If Crane hurt either of them, then he would have to answer for it. And that was all.

The Tumbler shot out through the waterfall, and Batman raced through the darkening night to reach Arkham Asylum before… before…

He pressed the gas pedal to the floor of the Tumbler. He would get before anything happened. He _had_ to get there before anything happened.

oooooo

Rosa looked through the thick plexiglass window at a somewhat familiar figure. She recognized his face, but that was where the similarities ended. The man in the cell was fidgeting endlessly back and forth, staring at the ceiling with unblinking eyes. He was in a straitjacket, and strapped to the reclined chair he was in as well. So many restraints, both physical and mental, on a man who had once been, for Rosa, all powerful.

She forced herself to keep looking as her father seemed to find a spot on the ceiling, and he suddenly began to mutter furiously. "Crow… Scarecrow… _Scarecrow…_!" She almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

A silky smooth voice interrupted her thoughts. "Miss Dawes, this is most irregular. I assure you, I don't have anything to add to my report."

Rosa whirled around to see the calm face of Dr. Jonathan Crane, his blue eyes cool and controlled behind his square-framed glasses. She suppressed a shudder at his all-too-normal appearance. Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men, the thought came out of nowhere, a memory of a memory of something she used to hear. I do. I know the evil in this man. Rosa glared at the doctor, waiting for her searing gaze to burn a hole in his forehead.

"Dr. Crane. I came because I have questions _about_ your report – questions which arose just as soon as I heard about the defendant's so-called breakdown." Rachel turned from the cell window to Dr. Crane. "Isn't it a bit convenient for a fifty two year old man, with no previous symptoms of psychological trouble, to end up in a padded cell two days before his indictment?"

"As you can see," Dr Crane began, his eyes like a lizard's : waiting for just the right moment to snap out its tongue and catch a fly, "there is nothing _convenient_ about it."

"If not convenient, then surely coincidental?" Rosa snapped.

Dr. Crane readjusted his trajectory. "Coincidence shows up in many ways, Miss…?"

"Ducard."

"Miss Ducard. It also shows up to those who are predisposed to believe in them."

"If you're trying to tell me that there's nothing wrong with this scenario, Mr…"

"Doctor."

"… Crane, then I'm the Queen of Sheba."

"Your majesty…" Crane inclined his head slightly, a mocking smile on his face.

"Rosa!" Rachel hissed under her breath. She turned to Crane. "I assume he's on some kind of medicine?"

"Of course. My major is in pharmaceuticals."

Rachel narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to need an assessment of the defendant's reactions to the treatment…"

"Of course," Crane replied. "I'll have it on the Judge's desk in the morning." He gestured toward the elevator, edging around the back of the two, herding them into its open doors.

"There's no need," Rachel said sweetly. "I'm having my own doctor come in to examine Mr. Falcone. Dr Lehman? I'm sure you've heard of him. He's already on his way." The elevator doors moved shut, and Crane had somehow ended up in it with them.

He sighed. "Of course." Then, "Before he arrives, let me take you up to the pharmacy. It may answer your questions." He reached out and pressed the topmost level's button on the elevator, and moved upward in silence.

"Ladies," Crane said coolly as the elevator doors slid open. They entered a hallway that was only semi-lit. Something's wrong… something's wrong… something's wrong… The Quasimodo in her head was ringing the alarm bells.

"This is where we make the medicine," he said, opening one of a pair of double doors, richly enlaid. He all but shoved them inside.

Rosa looked around the room quickly. They were on a catwalk, and below them were dozens of men in white anti-contamination suits, wearing masks over their noses and mouths. They were dumping a whitish solution into a large pipe which was gurgling with water…

"Maybe you should have a dose, Miss Dawes… clear your head?"

And that was when Rosa realized that Dr. Crane had subtly picked up a suitcase, one hand opening it, the other reaching inside for a opaque bulb and setting it between his fingers.

"Rachel, run, now! _Get out of here!_" She pushed her out of the door and pulled it shut behind her. She heard the sound of Rachel's shoes skittering on the polished floors, and the sound of the elevator's alarm. It wasn't going anywhere.

"Noble sacrifice, Miss Ducard. Unfortunately for nothing, of course." Dr. Crane pressed the bulb between his fingers and a spraying sound was heard. Now sure of what was happening, Rosa ducked, trying to cover her face, but felt something wet hit it all the same. She waited for the suffocation to begin….

But nothing happened. Slowly, Rosa straightened. Dr. Crane was looking at her with his wide blue eyes.

She sneezed. It seemed that this was the motivation that Dr. Crane needed to act, and something seemed to click. "You… the Bat Man!" He whispered harshly. A mad gleam appeared in his eyes. Then, to two of the huge men who had appeared on the uppermost catwalk : "Restrain her."

"No!!" Rosa shouted as she felt her arms jerked behind her back. "_Rachel!!_"

Another man appeared in front of her, his arm in position to knock her on the head. Thinking and acting quickly, she threw her weight against the man who was holding her arms and brought both of her feet kicking up into the air. Her right foot met nothing, but she heard a satisfying crack as her left heeled shoe came into contact with the man's chin. There was a howl, which made Rosa smile, but then a noise that made her freeze.

Rachel, screaming.

A moment later, Crane reentered the room, carrying Rachel in his arms. He laid her down on a slab of a table.

"Who knows you're here?!" he shouted, and Rosa knew that Rachel was hearing something much worse than Jonathan Crane's voice risen in anger. Her eyes rolling, Rachel rocked her head from side to side, indicating that no one did.

That was when they heard the thump, magnified and echoed through the cavernous room.

Crane looked up from Rachel, his eyes scanning the ceiling, a half-smile on his face. "It's the Bat Man…" he said, his voice higher, excited.

"What do we do?" Rosa heard from behind her, and she twisted violently.

"First, we thank this wonderful lady for coming," Crane approached Rosa and chucked her under the chin. "Bait is always a good thing to have." Rosa spat in his face. Calmly wiping it off, Crane continued.

"Then, we do what anyone does when a prowler comes around…" he said, making the sentence into a sort of sing-song chant. "We call the police."

"But…"

"Oh, it's far too late for them to stop us now; the medicine has already been going into the water for months. Freeze the building, force the Bat Man out."

Out of the corner of her eye, Rosa saw one of the workers take a cell phone out of a pocket, and heard him talking to one of the policemen. Suddenly, a ray of hope. Gordon! Please, let Gordon come. Please, let him recognize the description. Oh God, please…

"Is it true what they say about him? That he can fly… and disappear?" The thug holding her arms was clearly worried. Rosa laughed.

"That's what we're about to find out," Crane said, again eagerly scanning the ceiling, from which ominous sounds were coming.

"You're about to find out, all right," Rosa said, trying to sound as menacing as possible.

Crane looked over her shoulder, presumably to the man who was holding her. "Miss Ducard, answer me this : Does bait need to be conscious in order to be bait?"

It was the last thing she heard.


	13. escape

Rosa opened her eyes and evaluated her surroundings. Grey ceiling. She was definitely looking up at something, but she didn't know what. Her head hurt, straight on the back. Why is it that a certain type of man always knows right exactly where to hit a person? She wondered, a bit incoherently. She began to reach her hand around the back of her head to feel the sore spot – and realized that she was laying on something hard and cool. A soft moaning came from beside her.

She remembered.

Rosa shot up from her position lying down on the slab of concrete, almost losing her balance and falling face forward onto the chain-link floor of the catwalk. She turned abruptly, balancing her hands on the table, and looked at Rachel, whose eyes were wildly rolling around and whose arms were endlessly twitching; plucking at her shirt one minute, swiping something out of the air the next, catching an invisible speck between her thumb and forefinger.

She had no way of knowing what Rachel was seeing, but she knew whatever it was was terrifying. That thought brought another one on its tail-end : Dr. Crane and the poison spray… how long had she been out? A minute? Two? An hour?

She whipped around again, now facing the set of double doors. There, to her left, slumped against the concrete wall, was the man who had been holding her back. He made a slight move, and Rosa crouched automatically to ready herself to pull out her gun, but the man was unconscious. It seemed that gravity was still paying him a visit, and his arms slouched forward. That helped Rosa immensely – at the most, only a few minutes could have passed since she herself had been hit.

Then, she smiled. Batman was on the premises. She knew the technique well enough. After all, thumping around on the ceiling had already terrified the drug workers at Wayne Enterprises' docks. If it had worked once…

And sure enough, the workers on the lower level of the room were looking around suspiciously, some had pulled weapons from unknown recesses; others were surreptitiously making their way out of the workroom through a door in the back.

There was a large crashing noise, and Rosa directed her attention to a newly dented laboratory table. Apparently, one of the huge florescent lights from overhead had fallen on it.

Nice effects, Bruce.

Immediately, one arm snaked around her waist, and another around her neck.

"This is getting _really_ annoying," Rosa said, but the hands tightened.

"You want to play, Bat Man?" Eugh. Jonathan Crane's hot breath breezed past her ear and cheek. "Come and play, winner takes all…"

"You creep, get your little creepy hands _off_ of me!" Rosa screamed, and slammed her foot to the floor in defiance. The heel of her stiletto hit something firm, but sunk in. Crane's hands immediately left her body as he jumped back, leaning against the concrete table to examine his foot.

Rosa ran over to the table and leant over Rachel, who wasn't in very good shape. She was alternately moaning and whimpering softly, and her eyes continued to roll. At one point, her hands drifted up to her hair and she grasped it as if hanging on to a lifeline, pulling at her long, straight hair as if the hallucination would stop if she managed to take chunks of it out. Rosa took Rachel's wrists in her hands and forced them down by her side, getting up on the table and holding her down with a leg.

"Rachel, listen to me. It's Rosa, Rachel. You're going to be all right. Close your eyes, Rachel… It's me! It's Rosa!" Rosa became more frantic as her words had no effect on her friend.

"She can't hear you," came a wheezing, laughing noise behind her. "She's going to be gone… soon…" Dr. Crane had clearly left the building, Rosa thought audaciously.

The wheezing laughter continued as Rosa placed her hands on top of Rachel's, holding onto them tightly, then it suddenly stopped.

"It's about time," Rosa muttered as she looked up to see Batman slam Dr. Crane against a set of metal shelves. Batman looked over at Rosa, holding Rachel down on the table with a slight roll of his eyes, then turned his full attention onto Dr. Crane.

The suitcase of hallucinogen was still in Crane's right hand, and he moved so that the hand with the bulb in it was tilted upward toward Batman's mouth. Again, the spraying sound was heard.

Batman smirked, and, grasping Crane by the throat with one hand, he used the other to pry the suitcase and bulb from Crane. He pointed the bulb directly into the doctor's face, and Crane's eyes widened for a split second as he understood what was going to happen. Crane's mouth opened, most likely to protest, but it was too late.

Rosa forced herself to watch the doctor's knees give out. He would have sunk to the floor had it not been for Batman holding him against the shelving by the throat.

"Who are you working for?!" Batman growled, and even Rosa winced at the anger evident in his voice. Beneath her, Rachel let out a fresh moan and, with a strength that seemed beyond her, pushed Rosa off her and onto the floor.

"Ow…" Rosa said quietly.

"Who do you work for?!" Batman snarled again.

"R'az… R'az al Ghul…" Crane said, his voice breaking with fright.

"R'az al Ghul is _dead_," Batman roared, and picked Crane up from the floor, his fist wrapped tight around the doctor's neck. "Who are you working for?!" Silence. "_Answer me!!" _Batman grimaced until all of his teeth were showing. His canines seemed longer than usual, as if he was about to rip into Crane's flesh.

"I'm sorry… Doctor Crane isn't in right now, but if you'd like to leave a message…"

The good doctor stared blankly into Batman's blazing eyes and he suddenly slumped to the floor as Batman let go of him.

"Bruce!" Rosa shouted from her position on the floor. Her left ankle was twisted; she cursed silently as she tried to regain her standing position but fell back to the ground. "Damn it!" she said violently. She knew she probably looked ridiculous, sprawled on the floor, her black dress up around her knees. She twisted around and found Batman kneeling on the catwalk next to her, his arms already going around her in order to lift her up.

"No, you idiot! Not me, Rachel! Crane got to her… that fucking poison…" Rosa brought her fist crashing down on the floor so hard that it came up with the grid of the catwalk imprinted on it.

"I can't just leave you here…"

"You don't have to. They called the cops, before you decided to drop in. Gordon might be here! He'll take me home. I'll explain what happened. Just get…" Rosa grunted with pain; she had tried to put weight on her ankle again, "…Rachel… _out of here_!! Get yourself out! They'll arrest you!"

But Batman just stood up and ventured out into the hallway.

"You stubborn idiot… Jesus Christ, will you _listen _to me!"

"No." Came the response from the door, as Batman re-entered the "pharmacy." Rosa screaming in his ear all the way, he lifted her from the floor of the catwalk and sat her on the table, then picked Rachel up. "Wait here," he said authoritatively.

"Oh yeah, like I have any other choice!" Rosa shouted bitterly.

"Just… stay!" Batman said, then all Rosa saw of him was his black cape as it billowed out of the double doors.

There was harsh talking out in the corridor, and Rosa sat still, stretching as far as she could toward the hallway without falling off the table… again.

"Can you take her?" It was Batman's voice.

"What do you need me to do?" Gordon!

"Just get her downstairs. She's been infected with a powerful hallucinogen. If I don't get her to the cure soon, we'll lose her."

"But how will you…?"

"Look, we don't have time. Just get her down to the Narrows-facing alley. I'll take care of the rest." Then, Rosa heard a constant, high beeping noise, and a few seconds later, it seemed as if a thousand screeching animals had surrounded them.

"What is that?"

"Backup." Rosa could hear the smirk in Bruce's voice. She listened carefully as more shuffling and moving noises came from the hallway, and then Batman came back in, heading straight for her.

The screeching was getting closer, and suddenly, Rosa was able to identify the sound.

"Huh." She said, unimpressed. Then, "Hey!" as Batman picked her up under her knees and armpits. "I am perfectly capable of moving around by myself, thank you _very_ much, your Batness."

"Really." Batman kept walking, and they met a stairwell at the end of the hallway. Strangely, Batman brought his left heel up in front of him.

"This isn't really the time to practice tai-chi, or whatever the hell you're doing," Rosa spat. She felt very stupid and very helpless, and her arms were crossed in front of her sulkily.

"Take off the red, beeping part." Rosa reached down and removed part of Batman's shoe. "Now, we wait."

They didn't have to wait long. A swift black shape came flying past, running into Rosa's cheek, but recovering quickly. It was followed by another, and another… and soon hundreds of bats were flying in a column around the pair.

"Drop it down the stairwell." Batman said, and Rosa did. She definitely wasn't prepared for what happened next, as Batman leapt over the banister and they were falling… falling…

"Now would be a good time to employ the flying mechanism!" Rosa shouted somewhere between the eleventh and tenth stories.

"Anytime now!!" She screamed between the seventh and sixth.

It seemed they were about to hit the floor at full impact when Batman finally electrified his wings, and they shot out, immediately slowing down Batman and Rosa. By that time, Rosa's face was mushed into Batman's shoulder, which was, she noticed, very uncomfortable.

As soon as they stopped moving, she slapped Batman, hard. Which just ended up hurting her hand, as his face was encased in a hard black material.

Batman ignored the attempted injury and began to move even more quickly. He gently set Rosa on the ground (well, as gently as he could under the circumstances, thought Rosa, whose hand _and_ bottom were now hurting). Batman retrieved something small and black from the floor and pressed a button. The high pitched beeping suddenly stopped, and all of the bats left by the nearest open exit. Rosa heard the satisfying sound of grown men letting out noises of extreme discomfort, and was about to enjoy her mental picture of Fleiss being bombarded by a horde of bats when she was suddenly picked up again. Batman kicked the side door open, and they were soon in the side alley, meeting Gordon, who was carrying Rachel.

Gordon's face morphed into an expression of surprise and suspicion. "Rosa?"

"Hey there…" Rosa said, waving.

"Explanations later," Batman growled. "Rachel's getting worse, and I need both her and Rosa to a safe place… Look, go back to the top floor with your policemen. Crane and his buddies have been dumping a poison into the water supply; probably have been for months now."

"Then why hasn't it affected us yet?" Gordon said, keeping one eye on Rosa.

"It's ingested through inhalation. I don't know yet what his plan was… and the man he said was planning I know for a fact to be dead. Just be prepared. Something was up their sleeves, and I don't think Crane would have gone to all that work for nothing. Now," Batman paused, and sighed. "Rosa, there's a button on my belt…"

"Say no more," she snapped sarcastically. "Just let me know which one, I don't want to punch the wrong thing." She finished, indicating that she would like nothing better than to hit Bruce Wayne, Batman, whatever he was calling himself this particular moment, exactly where it would hurt him the most.

"First on the left."

"Whose left, your left or my…?"

"My left."

Rosa's fingers trailed across the belt, and she smiled as Bruce took a quick intake of breath that had nothing to do with the dire situation. Just as quickly, she pressed the indicated button, and a large black vehicle came bursting out of a shack behind them, its top shifting until there was a visible opening.

"Put Rachel in," Batman said to Gordon, then, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to share a seat. This is a strictly two-passenger vehicle."

"No problem." Rosa rolled her eyes as Batman lowered her down into the Tumbler. Rachel was shifting around restlessly. Suddenly feeling a great sense of sympathy for her friend, Rosa wrapped her arms around Rachel and began to whisper in her ear. "It's going to be alright, Rach. Close your eyes, just listen to me…"

The next thing she knew, Batman was in the seat beside her, and the top was sliding shut. "Gordon!" Rosa shouted through the crack in the car. "Don't worry! I'm going to be fine! Just get that Crane jerk in a straitjacket, where he belongs!" And then it was closed.

Gordon felt rather peculiar. For one thing, he wasn't quite sure what had just happened in the past two minutes. For another, he had only a vague idea of what he was supposed to do next.

But then something occurred to Sergeant James Gordon that had been nagging at him for the past minute or so.

How did Batman, the city's most notorious vigilante, think he was going to keep Rosa safe? And for that matter, a much more important issue entered Gordon's mind. How the hell did the man in black know Rosa's name?!


	14. out of our heads

Alfred had seen many unusual things occur in Wayne Manor since Batman had taken residence, and had learned many things a butler would never have touched on with a regular employer. Normal, Alfred thought to himself with a bit of a smile on his face, meaning, of course, that most filthy rich men of an appealing age, were not parading through the streets of the cities every night wearing a black costume with an intense display of weaponry.

Rosa had said something once when she was young, before the senior Waynes had died, "Alfred knows everything." It seemed that this statement had become a prophecy, and one that Alfred minded only a little bearing. He knew things that were only shared between two people, and knew things only three people knew.

To neutralize the feeling of discomfort from the weight of so many secrets was the large chunk of power that now sat on Alfred's shoulders. He was nothing short of a brilliant man, but at the same time, he knew that to be a manservant in a household which was comparable to the royal castles in his homeland, was a position which necessitated nothing short of brilliance.

It was his responsibility to know every room like his own, and to make sure that each crevice and nook in the Manor was matched to someone who would clean it with the utmost love and care. And, of course, being the gentleman's gentleman. Watching over both Bruce and Batman was his utmost priority, as well as being the most important thing he had ever done in his entire life. As soon as Batman emerged from Bruce, Alfred quickly discovered the farthest point of knowing that it is practically impossible to serve two masters, and usually this wasn't a problem, because he just thought about which personality presented itself at any given time. However, tonight, he was worried about both parts of Bruce Wayne.

"Batman" was of course the most current incarnation of his master, but Bruce was in quite a bit of trouble - even though by any standards he didn't exist right now. Alfred took out his pocket watch and opened it with shaking hands. A drop of nervous sweat fell onto the watch's face as Alfred noted that it was almost one hour after the official beginning of Bruce Wayne's incredibly decadent twenty-eighth birthday. The period of no curiosity as to where the guest of honor was quickly slipping away - even for the most infamous playboy in Gotham. Whomever the guests supposed Bruce to be with, or whatever they imagined him doing - all the allowance of improper behavior expected from Bruce Wayne was running out. Alfred looked around the main room once again, noting, once more, the presence of Wayne Enterprises' president, who was looking at his own watch with a grim look on his face.

Of course Alfred knew what was most important, but it was most glaringly important that Bruce arrived soon. Without the cover of Bruce's self, there could be no Batman. Ten more minutes, Alfred thought to himself, and then I'll have to announce something to the crowd. In the meantime, Alfred moved as fast as his body allowed him to the music room, praying to see something of Mr. Wayne.

Simultaneously, a rush of relief and fear ran through Bruce's devoted valet as he saw two figures emerge from the cave's hidden entrance. Bruce, still dressed in his black suit, dangled his cowl dangerously from his pinky finger, both arms wrapped around Rosa Ducard, who was obviously trying to keep herself from sobbing. This was rather counterproductive, as she kept sniffing and coughing, hiding her face in the space between Bruce's shoulder and neck. The cowl dropped from Bruce's hand as he began stroking her hair slowly.

Bruce looked at Alfred, and said in a calm of voice as possible, "Rachel's downstairs, Alfred. I've vaccinated her, and given her a strong sedative. Can I ask you to make sure that she gets home?" In the same breath, Bruce added, "is Lucius Fox here?"

"Yes, Master Bruce," Alfred said very quickly. "And your other guests are becoming restless, I think it would be in your best interest to change and join them. Is Miss… is Rosa alright?"

"I'm f-f-f-fine. You don't have to talk about me in the th-th-th-third person. I just need to sit down f-f-for a bit, I'll be f-f-f-fine."

"As convincing as that is, Rosa…" Bruce started, "… you've just had a lot of shock. I'll help you to your room. I'll come wake you up after the party, we'll get you home, call Jim, all that good stuff, okay?"

Rosa nodded slowly, "Sleep - home - sleep - Jim - Bruce. Go on and lead the way… comfy clothes, sneakers…. Jim."

"Okay then." Bruce looked at Alfred significantly. Alfred nodded, and entered the still-open elevator to the bat cave. "I'll get her home safely, Master Bruce."

"Thank you, Alfred." As Alfred disappeared and the entrance concealed itself again, Bruce very carefully sat Rosa down, and then sat next to her. He kneeled down and took off her heels, then picked the clearly waning Rosa up and carried her toward her room. As he looked down at her, he was relieved to see Rosa's face finally relaxing into a semblance of her normal expression. Her face, though, was still red and swollen, tears still flowing out of the sides of her eyes.

"Damn," Bruce said softly. Rosa had seen some terrifying things in her life as a police officer, but never had she been in the position of watching someone she loved so much slip away so quickly, knowing that there was nothing she could do about it.

In fact, it was the first time Bruce had experienced that particular feeling as well. He hadn't been there for the infection of Rachel, but he had watched from the beams near the ceiling, feeling completely helpless as Rosa was first knocked out by one of thugs working for, then held hostage by Dr. Crane. No, those particular feelings had never graced his stomach before. He'd felt very angry, but for the first time, his anger was directed toward himself. He'd not been watching over Rosa often enough - he should have gone with the both of them the moment they left for Arkham. He should've put together all the facts more quickly : how obvious it seemed, at this moment, to connect Dr. Crane to the drugs-stuffed animals in the apartment, to connect Dr. Crane's very profession and the rumors that ran through Gotham's upper society about him, and how he treated his patients, and how Falcone's goons, and Falcone himself, had ended up in the Asylum instead of in jail.

Why had he been so distracted?

A spritely figure in black danced across his memory, a very awkward figure with red roses and a Zorro-esque black mask, a woman who knew the answers to most of his own questions, and who was always turning up at the wrong times.

But then - Bruce had been so very sure that he was the only one of his kind - and that no one else would dare to do something about the serious crime rate of Gotham. That was a bit arrogant of him, he thought now, in hindsight. Had he really thought that everyone else was fine with going to sleep at night, knowing that something awful could happen to them at any moment? That he was the only one who could be a hero, or had the guts to be one?

By the time he had come out of his epiphany, he was at the door to Rosa's room. He looked down at her one more time, and her eyes were open. "Hey there," she said, a bit awkwardly. Completely relaxed, she cocked her head and stared up at Bruce's face at a different angle. "This… is a bit weird?" She lifted up the corners of her mouth slightly, as if she was a baby being entertained. Bruce wouldn't have been surprised if a little drool slid out of the side of her mouth.

"Er…. Yeah." Bruce said, lifting his head back up and trying to catch the doorknob with one of his occupied hands. He tried at that for about five minutes, then made an executive decision. Very quickly, he transitioned Rosa from a horizontal position, and carefully laid her over one of his shoulders.

"Whooo!" Rosa cried delightfully. "That was fun."

Rolling his eyes, Bruce opened the door with his now-free hand, and heard from behind him, "You've got a very nice ass, you know."

Bruce stood very still.

"It's very, well, it's a nice little bumpy rump." Rosa continued. Bruce let out a sound that might have been a protestation had he been a bit more with himself, as he felt a hand reach down and pat his bum lovingly. "Nice job, there."

Bruce coughed uncomfortably, and said, "O-kay. You really need to get some sleep."

"Okay," said a very contented Rosa. "Will you be staying?" Bruce took Rosa off his shoulder and tried to steady her as she experimentally tried to stand on her feet. It wasn't working very well, she was wobbling all over the place, so ended up leaning against Bruce's chest as his arms shot out to catch her.

"Sorry, I have to be somewhere else - there's a party going on for me right now…" Bruce explained in a voice that made it clear he thought Rosa was completely out of it.

"Okay… Can I come?"

"After sleep."

"Oh-kay."

Bruce took down the covers, then slipped Rosa on top of the bed, and brought the covers back over her. Her eyes were slowly closing, but the lazy smile was still on her lips. Bruce turned around and started to quietly make his way toward the door.

"Hey?" Rosa said quietly.

Bruce cursed to himself as he turned around, forcing a compliant smile on his face.

"Come here for a sec. Here, sit down," Rosa feebly patted a space on the bed.

"I have to get to my party, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. But hey, can I tell you a secret?"

"…Sure?" Bruce leant his head down toward Rosa's.

"I think you're the coolest, best, sexiest, most capable superhero I know," she said, then grabbed Bruce's face between her hands, and kissed him very firmly.

Bruce made a desperate attempt to disconnect, but Rosa was holding on tight, and Bruce was beginning to respond. The Batsuit was _not _made for sudden anatomical changes in the body. _Damnit! _He thought to himself as he brought one arm around Rosa to pull her closer.

Rosa smiled into his lips, and Bruce's resistance crumbled. Rosa's hand went around his neck, and he began to grab at her hair, and about ten seconds later they parted, panting.

"Yay," said Rosa, looking into Bruce's eyes, and then she flumped back down on the pillow, closed her eyes, and in seconds, began to snore.


End file.
